This Kind of Love
by sarapals with past50
Summary: Winner of CSI Forever Online "Best Romance" award for 2013! GSR, fluff, and sweet smut along the way! Set in 2005, sometime around the "Sunday" Sara refers to when she talked to Ecklie and established a time for the beginning of her relationship with Grissom. There is a little crime involved. Tired of all the angst of Season 13 ? Then here's the fic for you!
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: A new story...tired of all the angst and drama of season 13? Then enjoy this one...going back to the time around that "Sunday" Sara mentions when she and Grissom got together. Of course, we own nothing._

**This Kind of Love **

Chapter 1

Sara Sidle's apartment was one of hundreds covering acres of the city between the original business district and the miles of new spec built neighborhoods of the new Las Vegas. The buildings were totally lacking in any appreciable architecture with plain façades and narrow windows, but two redeeming features were assigned parking spaces and the small washer-dryer in each unit. Her neighbors were sales clerks, office workers, waitresses, casino workers, government employees, and a few elderly widows. She knew a few by sight—her neighbor, one of the widows, was the only person in the complex she knew by name.

She was lucky to have an upper floor corner unit that overlooked a small park space that was quiet enough for her to open windows. On the shared landing, she could smell the early morning breakfast preparations of her neighbor—bacon frying—and knew Mrs. Walters would be checking for mail delivery every fifteen minutes until the mail carrier arrived promptly at ten thirty.

Pushing open her door, she was thankful to smell nothing—no food odors, no sweaty clothing, no chemicals—just the smell of her clean living space.

The first thing she did after turning on lights and sliding the dead bolt on the door was to kick off her shoes. Another step and she stubbed her toe on a chair leg—one she remembered moving slightly as she had reached for her trash before leaving for work. She hobbled to her sofa—an uncomfortable piece of furniture that fit the space—and flopped down, massaging her foot and swearing under her breath.

She rubbed her foot and then rubbed her eyes; with a sleepy sigh she let herself topple over on the sofa only to feel the sharp prod of her cell phone against her hip. Sighing again, she got up and headed into the bedroom where she removed her clothes and tossed each piece in the direction of a hamper before she stepped into the shower.

Once the water reached a suitable temperature, Sara stood under the spray and tried to make the water remove the mental mud of the shift she had just completed. She had been stuck in the lab garage with a car possibly involved in a hit and run—no—she corrected. The car had been involved in a hit and run. It was methodical work and it was boring as she worked alone. She realized she had spoken to only three people during her entire shift.

She shampooed her hair, scrubbed her body, and cleansed her face with an array of appropriate well-marketed products of shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and foaming facial cleanser, all with a lavender scent, advertised to help one sleep. The fragrances were in such contrast to the chemical smells of her workplace that some odd trick was played in her brain to turn and twist her thoughts.

Memory after memory suddenly flooded into sharp focus; all involved the man she loved. Every touch, every word Gil Grissom had spoken in a moment that provided some degree of privacy over the past several years—a hand on her elbow, a head popped over her shoulder in such close proximity that she could feel a warm breath on her neck, his hand holding hers—flooded into her brain and poured into her consciousness.

Leaning her forehead against the tile, Sara suddenly wept. She cried until the sheer velocity of its flow obscured the specific circumstances of its origins. Slowly, fatigue and loneliness proved water soluble and she turned off the shower and the flow of tears at the same time. She wrapped herself in an old soft and shapeless bathrobe and wrapped a towel around her wet hair.

The life of Sara Sidle would go on, she thought, as she picked up her clothes and placed them in the hamper. She selected a shirt and pants for the upcoming shift, hoping she'd get something other than confinement to the lab.

As she straightened an already orderly bedroom, a tinge of hunger rumbled her stomach as she turned down her bed covers and ambled into her small kitchen to find whatever was there. She no longer kept leftovers, a decision she had made several months ago, and settled for a tomato, an avocado, and cottage cheese, which she ate in her bed. She read as she ate, finished her food, and gradually she relaxed as she continued thinking about the man she loved, who, unfortunately, was also her supervisor. Dreamless sleep came so quickly that her book fell to the floor with a thud that she never heard…

In a building much nearer the city's center, starring out of windows with a view of the famous 'strip', the man occupying Sara's thoughts watched as daylight came quickly that morning. The city seemed to turn into a stage as bands of sunlight competed with the glittering glow of the buildings along the Vegas strip until the sun gained its full flaming blaze and showed its blinding light was greater than all of the artificially created designs of the city.

Gil Grissom knew the day would be hot; he stepped away from the window and pushed his thermostat to a lower number. He had already showered, eaten the dinner his housekeeper had prepared the previous evening, and worked on the paperwork he had brought home. Music played as he wandered around his home, touching and adjusting several framed items, having no desire to read or watch television.

If he could admit the truth, he would have said he was restless but even in truthful discourse, he would never admit he was agitated or unhappy. For a long time—months—he had been critical of how the lab was being run. Conrad Ecklie, a political bureaucrat, was running the lab as if it was his personal profit-making business with barely a care for procedures and policies that made the Las Vegas crime lab among the top in the nation. At times, Grissom thought he was the only impediment between orderly, systematic and scientific operations and utter chaos. Grissom knew there was an undercurrent of distrust in the department; and at times, he felt something else—something he could not put together—yet. He would not reveal his unsettled thoughts to anyone—not without evidence.

But even his dissatisfaction with Ecklie was not the real reason for his mood of discontent. Gil Grissom knew it was a woman—Sara Sidle was under his skin. He had quietly observed her during the previous shift as she worked in the lab garage. She appeared wrapped in solitude as she worked; her face was beautiful. His thoughts caused him to chuckle. Sara's entire body was beautiful and he had watched as she gracefully moved in and out, over and under the automobile, gathering evidence, wearing a department issued-blue jumpsuit. He had caught her as she found evidence; her face broke into a satisfied smile. He had quickly walked away before she realized he was near.

His pacing continued; he wanted to walk, not around his condo, but outside with the sun heating the back of his neck.

It was still early morning. Quickly, he changed his shoes and grabbed a cap and sunglasses, slipped out the front door and began walking in no particular direction. He was moving along the sidewalk, passing restaurants and banks not yet open for business, noticing random litter but little else. While he was not unaware of his surroundings, he was not conscious of his path until he was completely across a park and suddenly realized he had walked a couple of miles. Just as quickly, he turned around, gathering his thoughts as he recognized his surroundings.

A few steps away, he sat down on a park bench and began to laugh. He couldn't help it, he thought. His hand raked across his face. He remembered—the clean scent of Sara in an alleyway, the soft touch of her fingertips on his arm, the feel of her skin against his hand, her fingers gently touching his cheek. His fingers actually moved to his face, to the place she had brushed away chalk.

And his walk had taken him—like a moth to a flame, he thought—to the small city park next to Sara's apartment. He turned and looked up, seeing an open window on an upper floor, and knowing, yards away, was the person who occupied his thoughts more than anyone had in a very long time.

Pushing his cap back with his thumb, he watched the window, knowing Sara was alone and probably sleeping. He did not know how long he sat on the bench when he caught a movement.

Standing at the edge of the park, a woman—Sara—stood, gazing at him across the grass. Her hair was pulled back; she wore a white shirt and jeans. Lifting her hand in a wave, she started across the space toward him. looking curious, her eyes large with questioning.

Deep in the pit of his belly, desire rose, surprising him in its intensity. Immediately, he removed his cap and held it over the growing bulge inside his pants, hoping she would not notice as she approached. He stood as she came to him and smiled. He wanted her badly, realizing this strange and sudden desire had been hidden for so long that it made him almost breathless.

Cautiously, he managed a weak wave of his hand. Carefully, holding his cap in front of his groin, he pointed to the bench and said: "Hello."

_A/N: And we appreciate your comments and reviews. If not for those, we'd have stopped writing long ago!_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you for reading, and a special thanks to those who review!_

**This Kind of Love**

**Chapter 2 **

Sara kept smiling; she had been peeved when she woke from a deep sleep to the chill of her central air conditioning clicking on until she remember she had left the windows open. She rolled out of bed, closed the window in the bedroom, and stumbled into her living room to the window. As she reached to close it, she noticed a lone man sitting on a bench in the park underneath her window. She had never seen anyone but the widows sitting on that bench before—most people assumed it was part of the apartment complex property—and she almost turned away as she closed the window. But the man was familiar; his form, the way he sat was recognizable. She took a second look, and immediately her suspicions were confirmed—sitting a few yards from her apartment was Gil Grissom. She waved from the window, but his gaze was elsewhere, which was a good thing, she thought, as she realized she was wearing a tee-shirt and old baggy shorts for sleeping.

Curiosity pumping her courage, she quickly changed into jeans and left her building. When he saw her, he smiled and waved, removed his cap and stood up. His greeting was as ordinary as if he asked her to pass the salt.

She grinned; "Well, hello, yourself." She sat down beside him and as he crossed his legs, she noticed an awkward positioning as he shifted for several seconds and placed his cap across his lap. She looked away, uncertain of what was happening, but fairly sure he had an erection. She giggled—unexpectedly—and placed her hand over her mouth. "Sorry," she murmured before asking, "What are you doing in my neighborhood? Out for a mid-morning walk?" She kept her face averted as he fidgeted beside her.

The bench was short for a park bench and Sara could feel the warmth of his leg near hers.

"I—I took a walk—and—and ended up here," Grissom said softly.

Casually, Sara shifted her position so one arm rested on the back of the bench; her knees pointed toward Grissom. "You walked a long way," she said.

"Did I?" He asked as he looked at her, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses.

Sara nodded. "It's nearly three miles to your place." She paused before asking, "Would you like some water? I can get you some—or better yet, why don't you come inside." She stood. "Cool off for a few minutes." She took several steps before she heard him move. "Would you like something to eat?" She laughed, adding, "I'm not much of a cook."

She headed up the steps, hearing Grissom behind her taking the steps much slower. But she didn't turn around until she opened the door of her apartment. Waving toward her small living room, she stepped into her kitchen and opened the refrigerator—hoping he would have time to—to—she stifled a giggle as she suddenly thought about all the times he sat behind his desk while talking to her.

And then she realized he was standing at the bar—hiding the lower half of his body. Pressing her lips together, she smothered another laugh and handed him a bottle of water, their fingers touching briefly. Her mind was playing several scenarios—from ignoring the situation to teasing him to actually taking his hand and leading him into her bedroom.

She said, "Is there anything else I can get you? Anything you need?"

Grissom had removed his sunglasses. In response to her questions, his eyebrow instinctly lifted; he leaned against the bar. Shaking his head, he took a swallow of water. Sara took a step in his direction. He closed his eyes and took another long swallow of cold water.

At least the bar was between them, he thought. And the water was cold, but being inside her apartment did nothing for the uncomfortable swelling in his pants. He was surrounded by visual images, by sensory fragrances, by the physical touch of the woman he was having significant sexual daydreams about. Closing his eyes did nothing to dispel his thoughts. She was asking another question.

"Wh—What? Sorry," he managed to say. And then he saw what was in her hand.

Sara said, "Figs, do you like figs?" She was holding several in her outstretched hand.

He said the first thing that came into his mind. "Do you know where the most famous depiction of a fig is?" He sat the bottle on the bar and took a fig, thinking he could talk about figs. When Sara shook her head, he continued, "Sistine Chapel—Michelangelo painted the fig—" He realized he had made a mistake. Michelangelo's fig was the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden—and an Italian Renaissance symbol for female sexuality.

"I've never been to the Sistine Chapel," Sara said as she placed a fig between her teeth and bit it.

Grissom popped the whole fig into his mouth and chewed slowly, the honeyed-sweetness of the fresh fruit roused taste buds and danced around his mouth. Sara lifted her hand to offer another one but he shook his head. Silently, he swallowed the fig and took another long gulp of water, nearly emptying the bottle, before placing it on the bar.

"A group of monks teach that existence amounts to misery," he said. His eyes watched as his fingers twirled the plastic bottle. "That misery is caused by desire and if desire is eliminated, then misery is eliminated." He sighed and looked up, his blue eyes meeting two soft brown eyes surrounded by the most delicate dark lashes he had ever noticed. "How—how can you admire a person who consciously embraces the bland, the safe, the ordinary life rather than risk the disappointments of pleasure?"

Surprised at the intensity of his words, he stopped, lifting the bottle to his lips before he realized only a few drops of water remained. Sara could not locate words to respond; Grissom accepted her silence as encouragement. He continued, "I've fought this—this thing—this desire between us to the point that I—we—must," his hands were empty and he brought both hands up, palms extended, "we must do something." He paused, not sure of what he had said or what it meant.

Sara stood still, her mouth slightly open, almost not believing what she had heard from a man who had had pulled her into excitement and expectations only, minutes later, to recoil from her as quickly as a gun after the explosion of a bullet.

His right palm rotated toward Sara. "I—I am not implying that a person abandon discretion, Sara. But—but you have awakened me from a long sleep." His hand reached out, a simple gesture of surrender.

Outside, the mid-day sun beat down with relentless heat; Sara was only mildly aware of the air-conditioning blasting cool air except that goose bumps were stacking on goose bumps as her hand touched the man she had loved for years, unrelentingly, unwavering, and determined. Somehow, she managed to step around the bar—she would recall later that he had rushed up to her; he would tease her that she had rushed to him.

She was in his arms, her tongue was sliding across his fig-flavored teeth a few seconds before his tongue touched her lips, and her hand was sliding along something perpendicular in the general vicinity of his groin.

_A/N: And what happens next? Is it Sunday?_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: And yes, it's a Sunday-enjoy!_

**This Kind of Love**

**Chapter 3**

Gil Grissom knew if heaven had a taste it would be as sweet as Sara Sidle's mouth. While his fingers explored the curves of her shoulders, her back, her slim waist, his tongue mapped out her mouth, the sweetness of her lips, the moist surface of her tongue, the adorable gap between her front teeth. He could not remember when he had kissed like this—or been kissed in this way.

At some point a stool scooted across the floor and they laughed.

"I'm sweaty," he protested as her hands found a way underneath his shirt.

"You are horny," she giggled.

And they kissed again, their lips touching, their hands exploring, until breathing became necessary and then they separated briefly, drawing breathe and keeping arms around the other. Grissom guided, or carried her toward the sofa, seeking some kind of indication or direction of what to do next. He caught a glimpse of her bedroom but decided not to push—Sara would make that decision. Her slender fingers slid into his hair as a long slim leg wrapped around his and with these simple gestures, she drove him over the edge. He had to have her and she was certainly willing.

Grissom felt his desire swirled with the scent of Sara—at one point he actually growled as Sara's hands caressed him. She touched his face; tender, gently, with fingertips as soft as a flower petal, a whisper of lips as delicate as a butterfly's wing. He kissed her hair, her forehead, her closed eyes; her skin was like silk—especially her stomach, her chest, her breasts as he discovered when he pushed her top upward. His thumb circled one nipple while his lips nuzzled the other.

Because they had ended up on her small sofa, he was half-way off, balancing precariously on one knee when his mouth took her nipple and he knew he was going to explode if he did not stop. Sara's hips were moving against his while his hands were pressing against her butt. If he could get his fingers between her legs—jeans or not—he was going to blow the zipper apart on his pants.

Suddenly, Sara pushed him away, flushed and panting. "Wait," breathless, "this isn't going to work, Grissom."

He lifted his head, unable to believe what he was hearing; his erection was straining, pounding for freedom. "Oh, God, Sara," he croaked.

"Bed," she whispered.

He nodded and managed to swing his leg off the sofa; now he was on his knees. Sara sat up, straddling his body between her legs. "Bed," she said again, "I want us in bed." She took his head between her hands and kissed him as they managed to stand.

At some point in the short distance between sofa and bed, he remembered—he was not prepared for sex—he couldn't remember the last time he had purchased a condom.

"Sara—Sara," he said as her mouth moved along his neck, her tongue flicking against his skin. His hands took her arms. "I—I'm not prepared, honey! I—I did not come here expecting this."

She kept her hands in his hair, combing it with fingers that gave an unbelievable sensual pleasure. A smile, sexual, erotic, arousing, played along her lips. "Do you trust me?" Her voice was barely a whisper, deep and husky. She tugged him onto the bed.

Scents whirled around him—a light lavender fragrance where Sara's head had been on the pillow, a slight citrus aroma from her sheets, a vague trace of a woodsy candle. Sara was hugging him, reaching up to touch his face, her finger tracing along his eyebrow. They were both wearing clothes; Sara was unbuttoning his shirt, leaning over him, kissing his chest as each button was released. When she pushed it away, she glanced at him.

"Mmmm—what do you think this is?" She asked, smiling as her thumb caressed his erection. The sensation caused his hips to clench and lift. Easily, with one smooth stroke, she popped the snap and unzipped his pants.

She made an audible breath that sounded like "Oh!" as his erection popped free. She caught it in her palm and smoothly stroked downward, her fingers playing with him as if she were a one-handed juggler.

Not quite as quickly, he managed to remove her jeans, or at least get them pushed passed her hips and she did the rest. And then his hands were on her panties, his longest finger was sliding, curling, dipping into the cleavage of her butt and his last conscious words were:

"You feel wonderful."

Sara had dreamed of this—never exactly as it was happening—but she had lost count of the times she had massaged herself to know her dreams were no match for reality. The masculine hands she had watched for years were seriously and furiously playing with her body. The mouth she loved—well-shaped, slow to smile—kept smiling as he kissed her. He worked her as if she were a complicated crime scene—sifting, dusting, sorting, separating—and took his time doing it.

"Yes, yes, yes," moaned Sara as she thrust her pelvis against a very rigid shaft. With one swift motion, his erection seemed to pry her apart with sweet determination, kissing her all the while.

This was the way to be loved, she thought, as his words filled her ears.

Desire rose; suddenly, she felt the violent spasm of orgasm coming from Grissom. Her own climax was so close; ecstasy moved over the surface of her entire body with prickling pleasure as her body responded to one volcanic wave following another. Minutes later, she felt as if she was a boneless puddle of flowing lava—still hot with desire but relaxed and satisfied.

Grissom heard her gasp; his eyes were closed. He could never remember sex happening this way. He could not remember a time when he had trusted a woman like this; and he could not resist taking her in his arms.

"Sara," he whispered, kissing the nearest part of her which happened to be her ear. "I—I had no idea this would happen like this," he said, almost apologetic.

She lay against him, curved along his body as contented as a house kitten. Her hand rested on his chest; gently, he placed his hand over hers. Her dark hair draped and curled along his arm, her leg crooked over his thigh.

With complete abandon, she had trusted him—beyond trusting, he decided. She had met him in lovemaking, man and woman working together, moaning as spontaneously as he had moaned, thrusting against him hard, responding with passion as he had taken pleasure with her body.

Grissom managed to find a corner of the bed sheet and to cover both of them with only a slight adjustment of their arrangement.

Sara nestled closer. She said, "Will you stay—for a while."

He nodded.

"Thank you."

He smiled, "I'll have to go home before work."

"I'll drive you," she said as she snuggled into his embrace.

He realized he was holding her closer than he had held another human in years. Surprising, he felt a kind of muted bliss. He kissed her again; her eyes opened, large and dark, glistening and radiant.

Softly, he chuckled. "Say my name, Sara."

Her head lifted. "What?" She asked.

"Say it—we can't go on like this if you call me Grissom."

In an easy movement, she rolled so they were face to face. "Gil—Gilbert," she giggled. "Which do you prefer?" Before he could answer, she was kissing him, saying his name "Gil" over and over.

Her passion reignited the warm flame still glowing in his belly and he responded.

And on a Sunday afternoon, Sara Sidle learned that making love to an older man was a long pleasurable opera of intense emotions accompanied by an orchestra of strings, woodwinds, and percussion instruments instead of a three minute rock song backed by an electric guitar and drums.

_A/N: This is not the end-more to come! Decided everyone would enjoy a quick update!_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Thanks so much for reading! And because we don't want to think about what the current writers did to our fav couple, here's a new chapter. _

**This Kind of Love**

**Chapter 4**

Sara had not meant to sleep, but her clock told her she had slept for several hours.

Grissom lay beside her, sleeping quietly, his chest gently rising and falling under her palm. Her head was against his shoulder; his arm was around her, his fingers resting at the place where her breast rose from her chest—a very erotic and arousing spot she had learned when his lips had discovered it—his left hand rested on top of hers.

Fearing she would wake him, she remained still. He was warm and naked; his chest was pale and smooth under her palm. She lifted her eyes to find a face that was relaxed in sleep; a face she knew by heart, but here, in her bed, with the intimate memory of the past few hours still fresh, she studied the face she knew as well as her own. There was a healthy, golden glow to his face; she suppressed a smile as she imagined the man as a small child. He was much more graceful, more tender, and funnier than she had thought he would be.

He had been amazingly uninhibited in bed—a surprise for her and proof of a mutual trust between them. He had also been very attentive—once he explained what he was doing as he brought her to the cusp of orgasm, slowed his actions briefly, then carried her to an explosive climax of such intensity that she thought she might have lost consciousness for several seconds. When her eyes opened, his face was inches from hers, he was smiling, and within seconds, his own orgasm followed. She felt muscles from her knees to her shoulders tightening against his thrusts, holding him as he pumped into her quivering body.

Lying awake, she could feel her body responding to her thoughts about sex with Grissom—Gil, she corrected. Smiling, she attempted to count how many times she had climaxed—probably a record for her—and she knew this man—her lover—had a very special and interesting way of prolonging his own pleasure. He was nothing like any other man she had ever been with.

Her nose wiggled as she inhaled his scent. He smelled clean, even after his walk and his complaint of being sweaty—that had been nothing compared to the heat and sweat they had worked up during sex. She smiled as she remembered their slick, sweaty bodies; he had attempted to dry them with the sheet but that led to more kissing and from that moment, the sweat didn't really matter.

Exhausted, they had showered—not together—but shared the bathroom for all but the most personal functions. She had found a new toothbrush for him to use and watched as he brushed his teeth; he had wrapped a towel around his waist, flicking it once to expose a pink butt cheek before leaving her alone, and had closed the bathroom door as he left. A smile crept across her face as she remembered returning to her bedroom to find he had 'made the bed', folded back covers and lay on his back, watching for her. He had noticed which side of the bed was "hers".

Once more, they had made love, gently and slowly, exploring and discovering intimate details of the other. Soft and yielding, confident and passionate, firm and sweet, exciting and happy—yes, she thought, he was happy—she was happier than she had been in a very long time.

Somewhere in her living room, she heard a phone—Grissom's phone; she knew its sound.

He stirred; opening his eyes and finding her, he smiled. His fingers brushed a lock of hair back from her face and returned to cover her hand. He asked, "Are you—are you okay?"

She moved enough to kiss his chest. "Yes, yes—and you? Are you okay?" Quietly, she added, "Your phone was ringing."

He dismissed the phone comment with a grunt. Easily, he shifted so they were face-to-face. "Tell me the truth—are you—are you disappointed with—between us—with anything?"

A soft laugh easily burbled from her throat. "Disappointed…oh, Grissom! Gil! I am very contented—completely satisfied." She kissed him again, rolling so that her leg angled over his, snuggling so his hip was between her legs—she knew she was hot and damp.

He returned her kiss, wanting to make love to her again, and the heat was immediate as she threaded fingers into his hair. Her body responded as his hands slipped along the curves of her hips—and then they both heard the sound of his phone.

Sara broke away, lifting her face above his, and asked, "Do you want to get that? I—I can bring it to you."

Grissom's fingers caressed her face, along her jaw to her chin. "You know this is going to happen—often—when we are in this—this position."

He looked so serious that Sara had to laugh. She placed a quick kiss on his nose and scooted out of bed taking his shirt. A few minutes later, she appeared, wearing his shirt, his phone in her hand. She crawled back in bed and pulled the shirt together before giving him the phone.

She said, "We'll have to keep it much closer to—to where we are," and giggled as she crossed her legs and sat facing him. When he kept the phone in his hand, without looking at it, she added, "Go ahead—check the call." Touching his face, she said, "It's okay. We—we can talk later." She kissed him again.

He made a face before he checked the phone. Sara got out of bed and went into the bathroom. A few minutes later, he knocked on the bathroom door.

"Sara?"

Opening the door, she handed him his shirt. "I'll drive you home." She was already dressed.

He pulled her into his arms. "Sorry—dead body off Kyle Canyon Road—been there several days." He kissed her forehead, keeping his arms locked around her. For several seconds, his focus was elsewhere and then he said "Take me home and I'll come back here and get you."

Sara's eyes lifted in surprise.

He grinned. "If I can't pick the CSI I want on the case—well—" He let the sentence die away as he laughed. "We work well together."

Playfully, she punched his shoulder. "Yeah, we do."

In less time than Sara thought it would take, her supervisor was in front of her apartment waiting for her. She smiled when she saw him—hair damp and curling from a quick shower—standing by the passenger door.

"Nice," she said as her smile broadened across her face. He patted her butt as she got into the vehicle.

Conversation came easy—it always had when things were right between them and it had never seemed more right than now. Just as easily, he had reached for her hand as he drove.

"Hungry?" He asked. "I know a good vegetarian place as we leave town."

"Perfect," she laughed, "Especially since your—your—"

He laughed, "Girlfriend."

She smiled and finished, "Your girlfriend had nothing but figs and water to offer."

With enough coffee to float the Queen Mary and two thick sandwiches filled with sprouts, tomatoes, avocado, and several kinds of cheese, they drove miles along the highway until they saw the deputy's car marking their turn.

Grissom greeted the young man who said, "The house is three miles in—at the end of the road. You're the first to arrive. The local mail carrier called it in after looking in the windows and seeing the old lady—the victim—inside. He stayed outside until we got here and one look was all it took to call for you—CSI. My partner stayed at the house. It's a crime scene in there."

_A/N: We appreciate hearing from you! More to come!_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Thanks for reading-we appreciate hearing from you!_

**This Kind of Love**

**Chapter 5 **

Driving in silence, they passed several houses, cinder block or wood-frame structures, set back from the narrow paved road. A few were well-kept; others were cluttered or abandoned-looking yet had a vehicle or two near the house. Nothing looked new or affluent; even the few dogs Sara glimpsed looked tired and needy.

Sara said, "When you live out here, you want isolation."

"Or solitude," Grissom added, "or it's cheap."

The road ended at a high mound of debris and off to the left, Grissom spotted a mailbox and a dirt trail barely wide enough for their vehicle. Grissom grimaced as the tires hit a pothole; they bounced in their seats.

Softly, Sara laughed, saying, "I want to talk to this mail carrier! What does he drive?" She grunted as another hole seemed to swallow their vehicle.

"I think these are purposely made—to discourage visitors."

Scrub, undergrowth, and long brambles reached out to scrape against metal as the trail narrowed. With an abrupt right turn, they were in a clearing and a small house appeared. Painted bright blue, the house surprised because of its neat, colorful appearance and well-kept yard. Intricate woodwork, not the scroll work of Victorian houses, but a simple, unconventional use of wood as art surrounded windows, the porch and roofline. Flowers bordered the porch; a yellow door and rainbow colored chairs added to the jewel-like exterior—all of it presented a stark contrast to other houses along the road.

"This is a surprise," Sara said.

By the time the vehicle stopped, the deputy's partner was off the porch, waving a hand in greeting.

He said, "Glad you guys finally got here!"

Quickly, he filled them in on what he knew—which wasn't much—and most of his information had been obtaining from the mail carrier.

Grissom broke in with a question, "Where is this mail carrier?"

"She had to finish the route." When Grissom looked startled, the young man added, "she's had the route for fifteen years—she'll come back."

"How far did you go inside the house?" Grissom asked.

"Just inside the back door—jimmied and broken glass when we got here." He said as he pointed toward the back of the house. "The mail carrier looked in the windows—saw her on the floor."

They followed a stone path to the rear of the house; Sara noticed well-kept flower beds and small areas of what the owner probably called 'art'—little concrete objects—birds, frogs, turtles, even little human-like figures were placed among the plants.

Grissom was the first to step into the house. Inside, the strong odor of decomposition met their noses. Sara's nose wrinkled as she followed him; the deputy remained at the door.

The house was a mess—a television on the floor, cabinets open, drawers pulled out and spilled, a closet door open and ransacked—yet there was an odd order to the place. Almost to the point of disorientation until Sara figured it out. Small items remained in place on shelves and tables and everything had a double. Two small globes, different sizes, sat on a shelf. Glass figures in different colors covered end tables—Disney characters, Sara thought—but in pairs, even animals were obviously male and female. She did not touch anything but looked for disturbances.

Grissom was already kneeling near the body, his left hand searching for his case. Sara reached for a small bottle and placed it in his hand. He smiled as he dropped an insect into it.

"Look at this—she was holding the phone when she was shot," he said.

In the bloody mess on the floor, Sara recognized bits and pieces of plastic. "Wow," she murmured, "I don't think I've ever seen that."

The phone was destroyed, as was the woman's skull, from the impact of a bullet.

Grissom replied with a satisfied mumble. "At least three days ago," he plucked another insect and dropped it in another bottle. "Thanks."

Sara lined up additional bottles before she started her tour of the house, slowly circling each room, checking two small bedrooms and a bathroom, before she headed to the kitchen. As she passed Grissom, he asked, "What have you found?"

"The bedrooms don't appear to be disturbed—one bed is unmade—yet the kitchen is torn apart." She paused, "I think whatever was taken was found in that closet—and she woke up, came to investigate, and…"

"She's got something under her—in her hand—wish the coroner would get here."

Bending to his level, and then placing her head parallel to the floor, Sara tried to see underneath without disturbing the body. "Maybe a book," she suggested.

"Not a weapon?"

Lifting her head, Sara said, "Too flat—could be a frame—a picture frame, something like that." She rocked back on her heels. "Have you looked around? Nothing in the house is valuable—old furniture, trinkets from vacations. She has a sort of shrine in the bedroom…" She stopped and held up one finger. "Wait a second."

When she stood, so did he, and followed as she returned to the bedroom. Pointing to a table at the bedside, she said, "There's something missing—a faint line—probably a photograph."

Grissom grinned. "Yeah, good catch. Could be what's in her hand." He glanced around before he reached for her hand. "We haven't talked—about—about us. Are you okay?"

Sara twined her fingers with his. Smiling, she said, "Yes, I'm fine—better than fine." She brought their gloved hands between their faces and quickly leaned over and kissed his mouth. "We can't do this—this…" she squeezed his hand and smiled. "You are my supervisor!" She whispered.

Grissom smirked. "Yeah, I—somehow that slipped my mind." He made a soft chuckle. "We're both wearing gloves."

Hearing the arrival of two vehicles, their hands separated. Both took a deep breath.

Grissom said, "Back to work—we'll take this up later—without the gloves."

The coroner arrived along with a detective from the sheriff's office. Their work began in earnest as Sara processed the house and Grissom examined the body with Dave Phillips. A heavy metal picture frame was clutched in the woman's hand.

Shortly after Dave left with the body, the mail carrier returned, apologizing for any delay caused as she finished her route. She explained, "When her mail had not been picked up, I knew something was wrong—I try to watch out for the older folks on my route—but I never expected to find—this." Tears appeared in her eyes. "Sorry—I think I—I just could not think about Alma until I got back here."

Grissom suggested they sit on the porch; he motioned for Sara to come with him. On the pretense of being an on-looker, Sara leaned against the porch rail in Grissom's line of sight as he, the detective, and the mail carrier took the chairs. Quickly explaining what had been found, the two men asked a few questions. The mail carrier easily provided answers, adding everything she knew about the dead woman.

Alma Lee Sullivan lived alone in the house where she had grown up. For over forty years, until her retirement, she had worked for an attorney in Vegas. The mail carrier did not know of any family, or of many visitors.

"She lived out here all of her life, I think," the mail carrier said. "She tended her flowers—about once a week, she'd meet me at the mailbox with a bouquet of flowers. I think she met her old boss several times a month for lunch." The woman wiped her eyes. "I can't think of anything—any reason why someone would want to break into her house and kill her."

The two men asked a few more questions; Sara slipped away and reentered the house. It did not take long to find the name of Alma Sullivan's former boss. On a hunch, she went back into the bedroom where Grissom found her standing at the bedside table.

"What are you thinking?" He asked.

She shook her head, saying "It's sad—in seconds, her life ended when, it seems, she interrupted a burglar who had a gun. We can't even figure out what was stolen—or what the burglar tried to find." She pointed to several of the small framed photographs. "I think this is her former boss." She picked up one of the photos. "And she loved him."

Frowning, Grissom took the picture. "Why the shrine? Or whatever this is."

"It's her memories," Sara said as she pointed to another picture. "Every photo is the two of them. Only other photo I've found is in the other bedroom—probably her parents." She waved a hand. "Everything in this house—all her figurines—are couples—pairs—yet she was never married according to the mail carrier. Maybe—maybe she had something from her work—legal papers or a secret deal with—with…" she smiled when she realized Grissom was intently watching her. "I don't want her murder to be some random event—killed because she woke up!"

"Now, Sara," Grissom started saying, stopping quickly. "We'll figure it out, Sara. We'll find something-somewhere—let's go back to the closet," he shrugged, "and the kitchen." As he touched her elbow, she turned; his hand slipped to the small of her back.

"Thanks," she whispered.

A few seconds later, they heard a familiar voice calling Grissom's name.

_A/N: Thank you for reading and your reviews! More to come..._


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Another chapter! Hoping to keep GSR alive and well in fanfiction! Read, enjoy, review, please-we want to know who is reading this one. _

**This Kind of Love**

**Chapter 6**

His face registering surprise, Grissom turned and took several steps away from Sara before turning back to her. He shrugged, mouthing "What?"

Hiding her grin, Sara turned back to the bedside table.

A full minute passed before Sofia Curtis appeared in the doorway. "There you are!" Her face brightened with a smile, her hand offered a cup of coffee, when she saw Grissom. And then she realized Sara was in the room. "Oh, hi, Sara—I—I thought you were…" she paused, "I thought you would need help. I—I talked to Ecklie."

Grissom interrupted her, "We can use the help, Sofia. Sara's got the inside—you can start outside. The detective can use your help, too."

He took the coffee and stepped around Sofia, saying, "I'll be in the kitchen."

Sofia followed Grissom. Sara had already searched the bedroom for obvious evidence so she moved on to the small bathroom which appeared as clean as a new penny. She could hear Sofia chatting with Grissom; setting her mouth in a tight smile, she processed the bathroom. She listened to Sofia talking and heard Grissom's soft and quick responses.

Sara knew her feelings about Sofia were based more on the often observed flirty behavior with Grissom than anything else. Sofia was always reminding everyone of her mother's career, trying to insinuate herself into the politics of the department—which meant Ecklie in the lab—and Sara did not trust Sofia or Ecklie. Sofia's laugh drifted from the kitchen. She wasn't doing much work, Sara thought, by standing in the kitchen talking to Grissom. Sara smiled—Sofia wasn't in bed with him for most of the day and based on Grissom's own words, he had not thought about Sofia in the same way he had been thinking about her. Easily, Sara's smile broadened.

When she had almost given up—the bathroom was obviously used by one person, Alma Sullivan—she found a light smear of blood—no larger than a thread but in a place as clean as this room, it might be evidence. Would she be lucky enough to find a trace of the killer? She opened the bathroom cabinet and found a disturbance. All the towels were rolled and stacked in neat rows—except two were out of place and there was space for another towel.

Calling out, more to interrupt the one-sided conversation going in the kitchen, she shouted, "Hey, Grissom, do you have a pipe wrench?"

In seconds, he was standing at the door; Sofia was behind him, head peering over his shoulder.

"What did you find?" He asked.

Sara pointed to the back of the water faucet, saying "A small trace of blood—probably belongs to the victim, but I'm bagging the thing." She pointed to the cabinet. "I think there's a towel missing, too. And I'm taking the drain pipe."

Grissom smiled. "Good work! The only thing I've found is—nothing. All I've found are fingerprints that probably belong to our victim. Lots of smudges from a pair of gloves and a closet—food pantry—that's torn apart," he said. "I'll get the pipe wrench." He turned and almost collided with Sofia. He stopped, "And you, Sofia, aren't you supposed to be outside? Look for a towel—maybe it was thrown away."

Sara managed to keep from laughing by frowning and biting her lip.

While Sofia remained outside, talking to one of the young deputies as they searched the yard, Sara and Grissom removed the faucet and drain pipe. Then they returned to the kitchen and spent fifteen minutes looking—searching—for anything that might be evidence of an intruder.

"Check the pantry—why would it be torn apart?" Grissom asked.

Moving a chair to the pantry, Sara stepped up for a different perspective. All she found were decades old circles made by cans and a few sprinkles of old rice. She stretched, standing on her toes to check the top shelf of the pantry.

"Must have been something up here," she said. "No dust circles." She felt Grissom's fingers on her calf. "Hey," she laughed, "Get another chair and take a look."

The small door wasn't wide enough to accommodate two chairs or two adults examining a dark shelf. Stepping up behind Sara, Grissom braced himself against the door frame while Sara stood within the crescent of his arms. She could feel the heat from his chest against her back, his breath on her neck.

"Bingo," whispered Grissom as Sara's flashlight revealed a pale, dust-free pattern on the wood shelf.

"She had a gun," Sara replied. "A long one."

Grissom grunted, carefully balanced himself behind Sara, and pushed on the bottom of the shelf. With a second push from Sara, the shelf was free. A few more pushes and pulls and they had the shelf in their hands.

"Careful, we want the outline intact if possible."

"I'll get film," Sara said as she extradited herself from the tight space by wiggling under Grissom's arm. "Be careful," she said as she held up her arm to steady his descent.

By the time she returned, he had taken photographs from every angle. Carefully, they begin to set up the kit.

"Ask Sofia if she has another one," Grissom said. "Or we'll need to do this twice and I'm not sure the battery charge will last."

Sofia did have another kit and another pair of hands made quick work of the process. Electrostatic lifting was an easy process, especially on wood with a coating of fine dust.

"Wow!" Grissom was the first to speak as the impression developed on the film. "I'd say this is a very old gun—a long gun by its appearance." A slight smile appeared on his face. "We may have found a motive."

Sara remembered a photograph in the second small bedroom. "I've got something," she said as she left the kitchen, returning minutes later with a framed picture of three people. She pointed to the group. "This must be the gun."

The photo was of an older couple and a young woman; the man held a long rifle and the younger woman, Alma Sullivan at least thirty years ago, was smiling as she held up a dead coyote.

Grissom and Sara packed everything into the back of his vehicle. After several phone calls, Grissom sent Sofia to another crime scene, instructing her—and Sara—to be "off the clock" after ten hours.

"Overtime is out of control," he grumbled as he crawled into his vehicle, passenger side. "You drive," he said to Sara. "I need to think."

Sara ended up driving with her left hand because Grissom reached for her right hand before they had reached the highway.

The night sky over Vegas was the color of grape juice—almost black with a purple reflection to it. Somewhere in the hills clouds gathered for rain.

"You okay?"

She smiled. "I'm fine."

His fingers tightened around hers. "Go home after we get this evidence sorted—I'll be late." With a soft chuckle, he said, "Get some rest—for the two of us."

Sara, aware that he could see her face as she drove, teasingly asked, "Where did Sofia come from?" She giggled, "You know she's after you—in a-get-in-your-bed way."

Grissom grumbled a throaty verbal moan.

Sara laughed. "Don't deny you've never noticed!"

"I have." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. "But what I do or say to Sofia has nothing to do with us." His voice lightened, "You won't find me underneath her apartment window—or in her bed."

Sara smiled, realizing how easily she loved him.

Keeping her hand in his, Gil Grissom settled into the passenger seat, leaned his head back, and attempted to think about Alma Sullivan's death. He knew he would do everything he could to get Sara to sleep with him again—no, not just sleep—he wanted to hold her, kiss her, feel her in his arms. Sara was warm, soft and yielding, more passionate than any woman he had ever known. He tightened his grip on her hand and pulled his thoughts back to where they had been, what they had learned and found in the small house that had been Alma Sullivan's home.

Neither of them mentioned the photograph found underneath the body nor had the mementos and photos on the bedside table; he knew Sara's thoughts and he promised himself that Alma Sullivan's lonely life would not be Sara's future.

_A/N: Thanks for reading our little fluff story! More to come..._


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Another new, short chapter-sometimes a story needs a short-between-action chapter! _

**This Kind of Love **

**Chapter 7**

It always took much longer than one thought to get evidence logged in and delivered to the appropriate lab techs and then to get a promise of results—sooner rather than later—but the photographs of the gun and the lifted dust print from the pantry shelf got immediate attention. By the time Bobby Dawson had typed in a description of the rifle, several others had joined Sara and Grissom around the table.

Bobby's sly grin crept across his face. "If this is what I think it is, you have your motive for robbery—and the murder. I think this is a Springfield 1870 Carbine—a rare gun—an Indian gun is what it is sometimes called." He turned his computer screen so Sara and Grissom could see it. "From the photograph, it looks like it's in great shape." He pulled a large magnifying glass from a drawer and put the photograph of the three people, one holding the gun, under it. "How old do you think this is?"

Sara answered, "At least thirty years ago—maybe older."

He tapped the photo. "The gun would be worth thousands—easily ten thousand—if a person knew what he had."

His comment caused a stir among the men; Sara left as conversation turned to guns and tales of firearms.

She took the faucet and drainpipe and ran several tests—the blood on the faucet matched Alma Sullivan's. The drainpipe with its trap filled with soap scum and hair was disappointing as she used tweezers to separate the soppy gunk. The killer had not left an obvious trace in the bathroom.

"Hey, Sara," Mandy called from the doorway, "good news, bad news." She was smiling as she continued, "You got a partial palm print that does not belong to the victim. That's the good news. The bad news is—can't find a match." Her forehead wrinkled. She said, "So whoever left it…"

"Thanks," Sara said. She sighed as she turned back to the drainpipe.

A few minutes later, Grissom showed up. "Hey," he said; his voice low. "Doc won't get to our victim until later. So—so," his fingers came together in a nervous gesture, "why don't you go home—get some sleep. We—we—ah—more results—I need to check on Nick's case and—ah—Catherine, she's…"

Realizing his apprehension, Sara smiled. "Its fine, Grissom." She gathered and bagged the detritus on the table. "I'm not finding anything with this. Mandy found a partial palm print I lifted from the door." She sighed, "probably belongs to the mail carrier."

Grissom placed his hand on one of the envelopes near her. Almost in a whisper, he said, "I—I'd—if it's okay—could I…"

Without looking up as a smile spread across her face, Sara broke in, "I'll expect you to call me before you arrive—and I'll have more than figs and water to eat."

She could feel his relief from two feet away; she looked at him. A teasing lilt edged her voice, "And I expect to do more than sleep once you arrive."

Immediately, he caught her tease. "Yes, yes, you can expect more."

Sara's lips pushed into a fake pout which Grissom suddenly thought was the sexiest thing he had seen since he'd left her bed. A simple forward movement in her direction would bring their lips together; he took a step back.

She said, "I do need a ride—my car is at my apartment."

"Oh—oh," Grissom reached into his pocket for keys. "Take mine—I'll get—I'll get a lift—get another vehicle or something."

Sara protested; he insisted. She ended up driving his vehicle home, making two quick stops along the way. In Target, she purchased a new set of sheets, a new comforter, and several of the sexiest panties on the rack. She was ready to check out when she thought of Grissom's needs—unsure of his plans, she headed to the men's department and found boxers and a soft tee-shirt and picked up several men's grooming items before leaving. She couldn't stop smiling.

At the grocery store, she quickly found what she wanted—a bundle of fragrant herbs, apples and spinach for a salad, ingredients for a cold soup, a Boboli pizza crust and cheese, olives, and mushrooms for toppings. She did not cook—not often—but years ago, she had mastered a few basic skills and when Gil Grissom arrived, he'd find a tasty and filling meal ready. A great improvement over figs and water.

An hour later, she had the salad ready, the soup in the refrigerator, and the pizza ready to bake. The bed was next; her old sheets, smelling of sex and sweat, went into the hamper and the new ones were smoothed and covered with the new comforter. She wished she had time to laundry the sheets—the 'new' smell was obvious to her nose—but decided the new smell was better than the old ones.

Quickly, she divided her bundle of herbs—basil, rosemary, lavender, mint—and placed several sweet-scented bouquets around her apartment. Much better than burning candles, she thought, especially during the day, and not as obvious. She ran her fingers through the leafy bunch she set near the door to release its aroma before heading to the bathroom.

As she showered, she could not remember when she had been this excited—sexually excited—and was amazed at the control both of them had exhibited while working. She had not finished dressing when her phone rang; Grissom said he was ten minutes away.

Ten minutes turned into five minutes—and before she could finish dressing—she heard a knock.

Grissom took a deep breath and tapped his knuckles on Sara's door. A prowling excitement whipped through him, tightening muscles, heightening senses, and unfurling urgency. The word invigorating came to his mind. He actually had to fight the urge to knock again.

He had taken a quick shower at work and changed his clothes. Instead of driving, he'd taken a cab to Sara's apartment and now regretted that he had not picked up something—flowers, a plant, or food—maybe ice cream—but it was too late.

The door opened; before he saw Sara, the aroma—not of cooking but of plants—a pleasant maelstrom of botanical scents—hit his brain. The door swung inward and Sara was there, smiling, as she tugged at the hem of her shirt; with the force of a sudden windstorm, his hands reached out and pulled her closer and he kissed her. She was slightly damp and warm and, surprising to him, the embrace went from a quick welcome to a searing disorienting instant.

Suddenly, Gil Grissom had a vision of startling clarity—a door opened somewhere, providing a glimpse into an extraordinary life filled with energy and passion and unbounded love that he had never imagined. He knew this electrifying awareness was focused entirely on Sara Sidle.

His breathing roughened as another rush of excitement snapped through him as her lips parted to his. Then his hands were moving, sliding around her as he pinned her against the length of his frame.

Easily, Sara responded, wrapping arms around him as she sank into his embrace. So this is passion, she thought, as she heard the door click closed behind him.

_A/N: Thank you for reading-and we always appreciate your comments & reviews! More to come!_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: This chapter is thanks to the person who sent such a nice surprise today! Thank you for reading-and a nice bit of action in this chapter!_

**This Kind of Love **

**Chapter 8 **

Intuitively, Sara understood Grissom's sudden demonstration of passion was brought on by the hours of well-controlled behavior while they had worked. And she returned his desire as she threaded fingers through his hair, opened her mouth to his warm, sweet tongue, and flattened her body to his—knowing this was uncharacteristic exuberance from a man who, she knew, seldom allowed himself to indulge in strong passions.

As suddenly as he had taken her into his arms, Grissom released her. Shyly, he grinned, saying "Sorry, sorry, I—I didn't mean to do that."

Sara returned his smile, cleared her throat, and calmly said, "Think nothing of it." Then she giggled and took his hand. "It's the heat," she added. She gently moved his hand to her waist, easily positioning it around her back.

"What?"

"Not the weather," she whispered. "Just as when you walk or run or climb stairs very quickly—one's pulse beats faster, you sweat because of internal heat."

His imagination invoked an image of her body damp from sex; his pulse accelerated.

"It's energy—physics," she whispered as her hands touched his face.

In an instant, she was in his arms, more tightly than moments before and they were moving in some kind of slow waltz from her doorway, passed the small kitchen—there was a moment of hesitation as they came to the bedroom door—but a quick step moved them in the right direction.

Sara felt she was on fire; Grissom's mouth slid off hers and found her throat.

"Do you want me, Sara?" he asked roughly.

The question had never occurred to her; she had wanted him for so long—almost abandoned all hope of ever experiencing passion in his arms. She placed fingertips gently against his cheek. "Want you—Gil, yes—I want you." She was surprised at how her voice sounded—sensual, sultry, passionate.

His mouth closed on hers, again, searing, hungry. She wrapped her arms around his neck and opened her mouth for him. A few minutes later, she realized they were lying together on her bed and the smell of new sheets had faded away as the woodsy fragrance of her lover filled her brain.

Their bare feet touched; startled, Sara realized Grissom had removed his shoes and wasn't wearing socks.

Very gently, he began to undress her, pushing her tee-shirt over her head and tossing it to the floor. "Awww," he breathed as his fingers touched the edge of her bra.

She actually trembled with excitement as he kissed her chest where her breasts made a valley. His fingers nimbly unfastened the back hook and pulled the bra away while looking into her eyes. Gently, his fingertip traced a light trail from her throat to her left breast, circling the nipple before he kissed it. Sara clutched his shoulder, knowing she could climax from his touch.

"Gil," she whispered.

"Shhh," he said, reaching for his own shirt and removing it. He stretched out alongside her, half covering her, and placed one hand over the curve of her breast, his thumb stroking her nipple.

Sara heard a soft, choked cry and realized it had come from her throat. Her legs parted for his knee as his thigh snugged tightly to her sex.

Another sound, possibly a groan, came from Grissom. He brushed her lips, pulled away and gently touched her breasts again before returning to kiss her lips, slowly, reverently. She softened against him as he touched her—softly, gently as though she were a rare butterfly. Passion flashed and pulsed between them.

Fingers unsnapped her jeans; his warm palm moved along her hip and underneath her panties. The intimacy of his touch was almost unbearable as her muscles twitched in anticipation. For only a few seconds, his fingers caressingly touched her belly before his thumb circled her navel. And her hips literally lifted off the bed as every nerve in her body seemed to fire at once.

She muttered words—senseless words—against his mouth—wanting his touch—immediately. She moved her legs, parting her thighs, wanting more than his leg separating her. Then her breathing seemed to stop.

"I want to feel your heat," he whispered.

His hand slipped between her legs and he stroked her; gently, deeply, finding sensitive places within and without. Sara managed to breathe, every muscle in her body responding to his touch, a torch of fire flaming from where his fingers touched her to her brain.

Tension twisted inside her, but she managed to slide her hand down his body, fingers finding the heavy, rigid length of his erection—trapped by his pants.

Immediately, impatience in her voice, hoarse with passion, she said "We've got to get out of…" She felt his chest shake. "Are you laughing?"

His fingers stopped what they were doing, "Never," he said. "I'm smiling—thinking the same thing. Jeans are not easily removed with one hand."

They separated for thirty seconds, maybe less, as pants came off. Grissom was naked first and pulled her jeans away from her feet. He started to toss them in the direction of the floor but then stopped. Pulling her new red panties from the tangle of her jeans, he held them between his hands, examining the lace with the look of amazement on his face.

A rare, amused smile, revealing his teeth, curved across his face. "I like these," he said as he held them between his fingers before flicking the crumpled lace over his shoulder.

Sara started to laugh, rolling to her side, but he suddenly took her knees, separated her legs, bent over and kissed her—right on her swollen clitoris—at the same time his fingers stroked her in a long, delicious way that caused her to shriek with delight.

He moved his hand on her again, his fingers stroked inside her, his thumb gently massaged the engorged bud he had just kissed. Sara's arm reached out for him but he clasped her hand in his.

"Come for me," he said.

His fingers swirled but it was hardly necessary. The heat in his words was more than enough to fling her into a white-hot flash of orgasm, unlike anything she had ever experienced. She could no longer think coherently.

Grissom moved on top of her and thrust heavily into her. Exquisite pleasure unleashed another blaze. Neither knew how long it lasted, but Sara felt as if floodgates had opened. A torrent of fire seemed to engulf her, growing stronger as Grissom thrust again and again into her. She dug fingers into his shoulders, sensing a sudden power as a sexual rhythm flowed between them.

"Sara." His voice was ragged.

She opened her eyes to find he was watching her with such searing intensity she could see golden sparks flaming in his eyes.

"Sara."

This time he spoke her name in wonder. The muscles of his back hardened; his mouth opened on a muffled shout of ecstasy. And then his climax was upon him, eliciting a second, gentler wave of pleasure deep within Sara. This moment of intimacy, rippling, pulsing through her body brought a new realization—a very private connection, a bonding, had been reached in their relationship.

Grissom whispered her name over and over in a reverent song, nuzzling his mouth against her ear. Deeply, he inhaled—the scent of her sheets, the light aroma of herbs beside her bed, the sweet smell of sex—but central to all these was the fragrance of Sara, and it went right into his brain.

_A/N: And if you have not done so, leave us a message or comment! And if you have-we want to hear from you again! Thanks! _


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Thank you for reading! More to come!_

**This Kind of Love **

**Chapter 9**

Carefully, Sara untangled herself from Grissom, who was sleeping soundly, only partly covered by the sheet, in the middle of the bed. In the dim light of the bedroom, he appeared comfortable, an untroubled expression on his face. Quietly, she managed to get out of bed without waking him and found her shirt on the floor. But it was difficult to leave him—watching him as he slept in her bed, thinking all her dreams had not been this good—she smiled.

As if he felt her gaze, Grissom stirred and opened his eyes; it took a few seconds for his eyes to focus. Then he smiled, looking remarkably pleased with the situation, and stretched his arm toward her.

"Don't leave me," he mumbled. His body stretched.

Sara's eyes shifted downward; the bulge under the sheet was obvious. She giggled, saying "If you give me two minutes, I'll be back."

As she left the bedside, he rolled out of bed and followed and the bulge became a flag pole without a flag. And Grissom did not hold back.

Playfully, he grabbed her from behind, laughing as he said, "We got to take care of this!"

Rippling giggles erupted followed by feigned protests from Sara. "I need to…"

She never finished as Grissom spun her around and captured her mouth with his. Instantly, she felt his strong erection pressed to her belly. And with the giddiness of new lovers, they fell across her bed, laughing, as the bed bounced and squeaked.

Sara wrapped arms around his neck and returned his kisses, sighing with pleasure, as his hand explored her body. Breathless, she dug fingers into Grissom's shoulders as his mouth traveled from her mouth to her throat; his fingers gently parted her soft folds, finding the warm dampness between her legs.

She managed to find her voice, "We have to stop long enough to eat."

"Are you sure you want me to stop, dear?" In a quick move, he shifted their bodies so he was on top.

The deep rumble of laughter she heard, the firmness of his erection against her skin, the probe of his fingers sliding gently into her warmth caused her to lift her hips as an answer.

At last, she thought, slowly, deeply, he entered her, abandoning all efforts of control; it did not take many minutes until Sara's body released itself, a vibrant helix reverberated through her body until she was shivering, not from cold—she had never felt warmer—she had never felt so blissfully alive.

And then she collapsed in an exhausted heap.

Grissom dropped light kisses across the top of her head until she turned her face to his. He said, "I respond to you as if you've been made for me."

Sara managed to lift her head; laughter welled up inside her, flushing away some of the sexual lethargy that had held her captive. Her hand raked through his hair, fluffing his curls. "Gil Grissom," she said, "I've known for years you were the only one for me!"

She wiggled enough so he slid beside her. "We should eat—I have food." Leaning to meet his lips, she kissed him, adding, "I need a shower—stay here while I do that—sleep—I'll wake you."

With that, she rolled out of bed, laughing as she realized she was still wearing her tee-shirt and hurried into the bathroom.

Grissom, seeing the double crescent of her bare butt, groaned, knowing he would not sleep with that image playing in his brain.

They both managed a shower—separately, because there remained a sense of privacy even with the intimacy between them. Grissom found the new shirt and boxers an endearing surprise. And he was even more surprised with Sara's meal preparations.

His unexpected smile transformed his face as Sara watched him tuck into the salad of apples and spinach tossed with bottled vinaigrette. She added bowls of cold cucumber soup to the small table. "A pizza is in the oven—black olives and mushrooms."

Pointing to the bowl, Grissom asked, "And this is?"

She smiled, "A cold soup—cucumbers and avocado in almond milk."

He stirred it before lifting the spoon to his mouth. "Something else is in here. It's good."

Sara explained the recipe, adding "It really is simple; the bread crumbs make it thick."

By the time they finished salad and soup, the pizza was ready. And while eating pizza, in an unusual turn of conversation, Grissom said, "We need to talk about so much, Sara."

The sober intensity of his eyes sent an invisible twitch up Sara's spine. If their recent lovemaking had been hours or days ago, she would be worried that he was ending what was only beginning, but, instead she sensed an uneasy concern in the tone of his voice. She watched as he moved several slices of mushrooms around on his pizza and she waited.

Realizing his words had changed the mood between them, he grinned. "Nothing dire—it's—I want to—ah—it's work—I can't be your supervisor—not with us…" his fingers waggled between them. "The policies—the lab rules…" his voice faded as he watched sudden tears fill Sara's eyes. "I'll move to swing—we'll overlap—we'll make it work."

"No."

Her voice was so low, he actually read her lips instead of hearing the word. He gestured, palms up, saying, "I—I don't know how…"

Sara cut him off. Quietly, she said, "We don't have to tell anyone." She managed to blink away tears; a slight smile almost edged her lips upward. "I—I don't announce my private life to anyone—not usually. This," she waved her thumb between them, "is between us—not you, me and the lab." She paused. "I didn't move here to work with someone else—I didn't stay because of—of Catherine or Ecklie or even the lab. We—we work well together—I think—and we can keep 'this' private—away from the lab and away from gossip."

Grissom dropped his eyes to his plate. She was right, he thought. 'This' was between them—and to make it known to anyone in the lab would mean they would both become subject for gossip. Certainly this would not be the first time he ignored policies and procedures; nothing else had ever been this—this intimate—this beautiful.

His eyes met Sara's. "You are right," he said, knowing they would have to be careful, knowing discovery would be disastrous for both. Then he reached across the table and took her hand. "What about—about things like—like dates—movies, dinner—those kinds of things couples do?"

Sara laughed and quickly pressed her lips together. She breathed a deep sigh before saying, "I've had dates—all the movies, the dinners—I don't think I need those for at least a few months—maybe longer. And I think we're having a nice dinner now." She attempted to stop her grin. "I don't think we've worried too much about—about anything but…" her head nodded in the direction of her bedroom.

Grissom laughed. "I think I enjoy the appetizer best."

"So we keep us private?"

"We'll have to be careful," he whispered.

Her fingers laced with his. "And no more making out in the work place." She laughed again, adding, "Are we prepared to be found out?"

"The only one who'll give us trouble is Ecklie—he'll want to fire you."

Sara shrugged, saying, "Not for the first time."

He lifted her hand to his lips. "We'll be fine."

"Gil, can I ask one favor—a promise?" A hint of a smile crossed her face.

He nodded.

"No secrets—I don't want to be the last one to know—if—if there is—you know—someone else."

Grissom took her hand in both of his. "There is no one else—and it has been a very long time since there was anyone." Then realization registered. He struggled to swallowed laughter, saying, "Rumors are just that—rumors." He kept her hand in his as his voice lightened. "And will you promise me the same?" He allowed a hint of laughter to enter his voice. "If there is an EMT…"

Irritation flickered across Sara's face before she smiled. She said, "Rumors," and giggled. "All we ever did was go to movies together." Briefly, her lips formed a tight line before she smiled again. "And he kissed me like I was his sister."

A few seconds passed before Grissom responded, an incredulous look on his face. "His sister—his sister!" Surprising laughter blew away any remnant of uncertainty between them as Sara nodded her head. "The EMT kissed you like a sister?" Grissom's laugh became a soft chuckle as he released her hand and picked up another slice of pizza. He used the pizza as an indicator, pointing in her direction. "I can promise you, dear, I'll never kiss you like a sister!"

When Sara laughed, he added, "And whenever I am around you I am filled with lustful desires."

When Sara met his eyes, the heat was so powerful and intimate she realized her pulse was beating very rapidly. She asked softly, "Would those desires be of a depraved nature?"

"I don't think so," he said. "Depraved implies an unnatural condition. What I feel with you is entirely natural."

_A/N: Your comments, messages, and reviews are the reason we write - love hearing what you think! Thanks so much for reading - and more to come._


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: A new chapter-read, enjoy, let us hear from you! _

**This Kind of Love**

**Chapter 10**

Gil Grissom discovered he had to work hard to concentrate on any subject other than Sara's faint scent and warm presence. They had been together for hours, yet he wanted more. He had left her apartment, gone home to dress, and, when he arrived at the lab, she was already there, pulling together evidence in the Alma Sullivan case. Working across the table from her, being this close to her, had a disturbing effect on his usually well-ordered thoughts. It was lack of sleep, he thought. He made a quiet grunt as the coroner walked into the room and greeted Sara first.

As the two talked, Grissom was struck by the strange thought that he had not been aware of missing the particular type of intimacy he had experienced with Sara until it happened—and now the nearly irresistible urge was riding him hard once again. He grabbed a stool, gathered his lab coat around his hips, and sat down before anyone noticed.

Doc Robbins was his usual amiable self as he presented his autopsy results for Alma Sullivan. "Everyone's talking about the old gun—what killed her was an old bullet—disintegrated to fragments in her brain. What's amazing is how the bullet went right through that old phone." Doc shook his head as he looked over their crime scene photographs. "Amazing how little damage was done to the phone—don't make them like that now!"

Several minutes later, Grissom was alone again with Sara. She studied his face as he looked through the report Doc Robbins had left.

"Did you get any sleep?"

His eyes flickered from paper to her face. "A few hours—I wasn't watching the clock."

She stifled a laugh. Picking up a folder, she said, "Alma Sullivan's boss said he's available to talk—Brass is going—do you want to come?"

Philip McDaniel met them at the door of a large, sprawling home. "Come in, come in," he said as he stepped back into a bright atrium. Grissom and Brass followed Sara inside. They knew the man was wealthy—an accountant who had made the right decisions for the right people in Vegas—and Alma Sullivan had worked for him for thirty-five years. He was nearly eighty years old yet his upright posture caused Sara and Grissom to straighten their shoulders to match his. He led them through several rooms, a living room decorated in a modern style that never went out of fashion, a crammed library and a neat kitchen, finally opening doors into a plant filled room; Sara knew it was a rarity in Vegas—a private home with a true conservatory, climate controlled, so the desert was outside and a lush growth of verdant green vegetation grew inside a fanciful designed glass structure.

"My wife is back here," he said. The sea of plants was so thick and dense that they did not notice the woman until they were almost on top of her, surrounded by a table filled with purple orchids.

"Lucy, these are the people who called about Alma," he said as an introduction. Philip McDaniel's wife was in a wheelchair—a custom built reclining chair, her hands held in place with supports, her head positioned on a pillowed rest—and her glazed eyes recognized no one. Her husband quickly continued, saying "Lucy has been this way for—for twenty-seven years." The man's hand gently touched his wife's forehead. He turned to look at the three strangers standing in his home.

"It doesn't have anything to do with what's happened to Alma—but I want you to hear it. Lucy was my high school sweetheart. We married when we were twenty-one. I worked all the time for years. We had everything a couple could want—nice house, new cars, never wanted for anything." Philip McDaniel stopped talking as someone entered the conservatory. "This is Lucy's nurse, Barbara."

The woman acknowledged the visitors and quickly rolled Lucy McDaniel away.

"Let's go back to the living room where we can talk," Philip McDaniel said, leading them back the way they had come. "We don't leave Lucy alone for very long—I'm here with her during the day before her night nurse comes in." Making sure everyone was comfortable, he continued, "My wife is in a vegetative state, unable to talk, eat, enjoy simple things. Essentially, she breathes." His audible sigh caused Brass to glance at Sara and Grissom. "But you came to hear about Alma."

Mr. McDaniel settled into an oval chair and steepled his fingers together. "Alma started working for me when she was—I'm sure she was twenty-one. I was nearly forty. At the time, I can't say I knew it, but within days, I had fallen in love—an old man of forty! She was a young girl full of life—a joy to be around—always smiling and laughing—I was willing to do anything for her!" He had smiled as he spoke of Alma, but the smile disappeared as he continued, "I also had a wife—and I loved her."

He talked for fifteen minutes, describing a long love affair with his secretary. "She never asked for anything—no gifts, no divorce—she was completely happy—we were happy—to work together every day. We took business trips together—occasionally, we found a way—you can imagine. We had a small apartment near the office. " He shook his head, saying, "We believed we were not hurting anyone—my wife had all she desired, I was home as much as any man, we took vacations, and I did not think she knew about Alma—not our affair. But, of course, she learned of it—how, we'll never know." His voice dropped as he said, "Twenty-seven years ago, I came home to find Lucy—she—she had swallowed drain cleaner." He paused for several seconds before continuing, "Lucy was not supposed to live—not over night, not a month, not a year—but she did.

"Alma and I called it quits—that lasted exactly two weeks. Lucy's condition wasn't much different from how she is today, but when she was stabilized, I brought her home and she's been here since. Alma retired when I did—I still love her." His shaking hand wiped his eyes. "I always thought Lucy would go first—and—and Alma and I would finally be together."

The old man paused and Sara noticed Brass was not taking notes.

"I didn't kill Alma—I don't know anyone who would—she collected little figures—like Mickey Mouse or frogs or things—that she got when we traveled together—they were useless little things, but she got a giggle out of buying them. Financially, she was well-off but she lived simply. She'd come in every week and we'd have lunch, hold hands like old couples do," softly he chuckled. "People thought we were father and daughter or we were old lovers, maybe a trophy wife or arm candy, but it was much more. She was my soul-mate, my kindred spirit." Sighing again, he said, "I—I think we thought we had forever."

When it was obvious he had ended his story, Grissom asked if he knew about the gun.

Philip McDaniel nodded, "Old gun—her grandfather's, I think. Alma talked about it—there is a photo of her with her parents and her father is holding the gun. Did you find it?" He rubbed his hand across his face. "I just can't believe she's gone like that."

They stayed a little longer, but more to comfort the old man than to obtain information.

Back in the lab, Grissom left Sara to go over all the evidence again. "Keep looking," he encouraged, "there has to be something."

The third time Sara looked at her photographs, she found something. Not much, she thought, as she studied the photograph with a magnifying glass. In the moment of her death, Alma Sullivan had been trying to dial a telephone number. Her finger had kept most of the blood from covering that number on the key pad.

Sara was bent over the table, propped on her elbows, when Grissom returned.

"You found something," Grissom said quietly.

Without looking up, Sara answered, "Her finger was pressing the number four—not nine."

He leaned over to look at the photograph. "She knows someone is in the house and instead of calling for help, she—what about Philip McDaniel?"

"Nope," Sara said, quietly laughing. "Checked his number."

Grissom turned to the computer and, with a few clicks, pulled up a list of names. He said, "Let's start with her neighbors." He glanced at Sara. "Would your neighbor call you," he grinned. "If you lived in an isolated area—would you call a neighbor or 9-1-1?"

A list of names appeared on the screen; Sara leaned over his shoulder as he ran a finger along the addresses and telephone numbers. As they looked at numbers, Sara grabbed pen and paper and scribbled seven names.

"She never completed the call, but her nearest neighbor's number begins with a four."

Grissom was already gathering the scattered evidence. He stopped suddenly, saying, "Why don't you go home? Brass and I can check the neighbors—you should get some sleep."

Sara pressed her lips together for a few seconds and then said, "We agreed no favoritism."

He grinned. "No favoritism—just watching your overtime." He stuck a hand in his pocket. "My keys—go to my place, please." His voice softened as surprise crossed her face. "We need to—" he shrugged, "I want you to be there." Lowering his voice even more, he whispered, "I think your bed deserves a rest."

With that, Sara let her suppressed giggle surface and took his keys. "Wake me if I'm asleep," she whispered. She knew she would not sleep, not in a strange bed, but she'd be there.

A while later Sara was standing in the middle of Grissom's condo—not for the first time—but for the first time he wasn't home. She had hesitated, almost changed her mind when she had stopped at her place, but the jingle of his keys reminded her of his request. She had showered, changed, packed a bag with essentials and, now was at a loss as to what she should do next, so she walked around. Exploring, she decided, not snooping, as she made her way around the living-kitchen area and into the bedroom. Everything was clean, in place, bed made, fresh towels in the bathroom. The only thing she opened was the refrigerator—checking for food—and found a surprising variety of fresh fruits and vegetables. She smiled; he had mentioned he was trying to eat healthier.

Without much trouble, she figured out how to turn on his music, selected one of his books from the bookcase, and settled down to read. That lasted fifteen minutes; restless, she walked around the large open area again, replaced the book, and fingered several other books. The music wasn't a favorite so she lowered the volume, and as she did, she noticed the police scanner. Smiling, she flipped on the scanner—same model she had at her apartment—and the familiar voices soothed her nervousness.

She pulled another book from the shelf, curled on the sofa, and within minutes, she was asleep. Slumped over, her head on the edge of the arm rest, her body was not comfortable, but exhaustion won and she slept for several hours.

Jerking awake, confused and stiff, Sara instantly thought she had been dreaming before her brain focused and she remembered—Grissom's home. Rubbing her neck, she straightened, thinking her uncomfortable position was the cause of her sudden rouse. As her mind cleared, she heard voices—the scanner—urgent but calm as codes were used for an unexpected event. The dispatcher was recalling an officer involved shooting, saying the situation was a 2-4-6 instead, adding the address.

Sara was on her feet and standing in front of the scanner in seconds; "the address," she said, "say the address again!"

As if her request had been heard, the voice repeated "shooting at an inhabited residence"—and gave the address, off Kyle Canyon Road.

_A/N: Thank you for reading! More to come..._


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Thanks so much for reading...we appreciate those who take the time to review!_

**This Kind of Love **

**Chapter 11**

Off Kyle Canyon Road, the long driveway to Alma Sullivan's house was lined with a dozen vehicles by the time Gil Grissom and Jim Brass extradited Brass' car and headed back to Vegas. The two men were quiet until Brass turned onto the highway.

Grissom said, "I will never get use to things like this—never."

The sound of a grump came from Brass. "Seeing someone blow out his brains is never forgettable, Gil."

"And just a kid—why did he do it?" Grissom knew there was no answer as he asked the ambiguous question.

"He might have been a kid, but a kid who had been pilfering and robbing from his neighbors for a while. That hand gun was stolen a year ago. And he shot his neighbor with her own gun when she recognized him!" Both men remained quiet for several minutes. Finally, as a shift in thought occurred, a quiet chuckle came from Brass. "Who are you trying to call? That cell phone has been in your hand for the past hour—just make the call. I'll pretend not to listen!"

Grissom squirmed in his seat, muttering, "It will wait."

And he decided this case would wait; the murderer of Alma Sullivan, her teenage neighbor, had killed himself in front of them with his parents watching. His head ached as he tried to process all of it. Rubbing his eyes, he leaned back and sighed. The case would be closed with no further investigation.

Jim Brass chuckled again. "Some ladies won't wait, Gil."

"I need a vacation, Jim," Grissom grumbled. "About a week with no phone calls."

"Wow," Brass said with a laugh, "this one must be special if she deserves a week!"

Grissom closed his eyes in an attempt to stop the conversation—or at least change its direction. "My head aches."

"Well, I'd offer you my sofa but I think you'll be better off at home—or wherever." Brass chuckled, adding, "Sometimes a new car or a motorcycle is a lot easier."

Softly, Grissom laughed. "You should know!" He laughed again before putting dark glasses on and lapsing into silence for the drive.

Sara had paced the floor listening to the scanner until she heard enough to figure out a suspect had taken his own life. Restless, she roamed; Grissom had told her there was plenty of food but she had not eaten. Now she opened the refrigerator, removed a bag of carrots and proceeded to slice each one with a precision that would have surprised her co-workers. Too late, she realized she had too many for a salad, so she found a pan, added water and put the carrots on the stove.

Once she started working in the kitchen, the edginess left her and she lost her apprehension about being in Grissom's place as she found more food to prepare—elbow macaroni for macaroni and cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers for a salad, and finding several apples past their prime, she sliced them up, added sugar and put the bowl in the oven.

She lost track of time as she worked—as macaroni cooked, she grated cheese, melted butter, and was surprised to find soy milk to make her sauce. Once she placed it in the oven, she started on a salad.

Grissom made one stop after he left the lab and when he parked his vehicle, he could see the blinds in his condo were pulled open—something he never did. As he looked at the windows, he saw Sara's shadow moving about and watched for several minutes until he figured out she was walking back and forth from the kitchen to his table. But not walking, he realized—she was dancing—slow dancing across his floor.

He realized he wanted this—more than he should. To come home. To deal with the day, shake it off, and come home to music and light. To a woman—this woman.

Picking up his purchase, he got out and headed to the door, found it unlocked and eased it open. Now, he could see Sara as she slow-danced to his music, her hands holding a hand towel that surrounded something hot. He let her place it on the table before he said anything. His mind began to spin around the idea of having Sara with him all the time—living here, being here together.

And the only thing he could think to say was: "It smells good in here."

Sara's head popped up; she grinned. "Hi. Wondered when you would find your way home." She tilted her head to one side. "You—you look a little rough around the edges—what've you been up to?" She walked around the table, a smile—showing understanding and relief—on her face.

He held out the flowers—a bouquet of daisies and roses and ferns he had gotten at a florist—requesting nice flowers for a lady friend.

"What's this for?"

Grissom smiled, saying "I—I realized we were working backward—in the traditional sense. We've already gotten into bed so that pressure is off, so now I'm—I'm romancing you."

Sara's hand covered her mouth—in surprise or in an effort to hide her amusement—he wasn't sure.

She stepped forward; instead of taking the flowers, she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Romancing me," she said, emitting a giggle that instantly heated his groin. "Can we still have sex while you romance me?"

Using his free hand, he skimmed back a lock of hair, leaned over, eyes open, and kissed her. Soft and quiet, the warmth between them sparked with licks of heat. He kept his eyes open—as did she—and watched those perfect loving brown eyes of hers flicker once.

When he eased back, he brought the flowers between them as she rubbed her lips together. He said, "It's good to kiss you."

Maybe it was the atmosphere, the easy conversation, maybe it was Sara, having her in his house, maybe it was the food prepared by the woman he was certain he loved, but he could not remember a more relaxed meal. Of course, she had listened to the scanner and had figured out he could not easily call her. She had heard Jim Brass go off-duty, had called him and heard about the shooting, learning Grissom had left at the same time.

As they ate, Grissom filled in the details, telling her about Alma Sullivan's teenage neighbor who, when confronted by his parents, denied involvement but then had suddenly changed when his mother headed to the boy's bedroom. He had shoved her aside, run into the bedroom, and returned with a handgun.

"It was chaos, Sara. Brass was trying to talk him down, the parents were shouting at him—at each other—when he turned the gun on himself and pulled the trigger!"

Sara held his hand across the table. She asked, "Did he admit to killing Alma?"

"Oh, yes—yes, he did. He knew about the gun—thought he could get inside and find it while Alma was asleep."

"And she knew who he was when she woke up."

He nodded. It was so easy to talk to her, yet under the ease was a frisson of excitement, that sexual buzz that heated his blood with anticipation. He wanted to get his hands in her hair, his lips on her neck; his belly tightened as the weight of the past hours slid off his shoulders.

She rose. "Let's get these dishes out of the way."

When the kitchen was tidied to her specifications, Grissom began drawing her toward the bedroom. "You know I think about you all the time."

Sara hooked her arms around his waist. "Such as?"

"Like picturing you naked when I was going over reports."

She giggled, "Why don't you get me that way now?"

"I like you dressed, too," he said as he tugged her shirt over her head. His fingertip traced along the edge of her pink bra before he held the same finger in front of her. "But I want a shower—need a shower." When Sara scowled, he quickly continued, "I can be fast," his eyebrow lifted. "You could join me?"

Grissom did not wait for an answer—it was in her eyes—bright with sparkles of gold in a pool of brown. Pulling her along as he walked backward—or was he pushed? He didn't care; he liked the feel of her body under his hands, how warm and smooth she was. Knowing there was the secret, sexy scent that only he would find.

Sara touched him, easily, eagerly, stripping his shirt from him as he did for her. And she lit something inside him, something more than lust, more than desire. Something that had been hibernating far too long. He could lose himself in her without feeling lost.

In the bathroom, there was a minute of hesitation as he realized he had nothing—no personal items—for a female guest in his house.

Grissom said, "I—I don't have anything—not for you—I—I…"

Wearing only her bra and pants, Sara laughed. "I brought my own things—just a sec." And leaving him for a few minutes, she left and returned with a small bag.

Turning on the water, he waited for her to return and holding the shower door open, waved for her to enter first. With unexpected ease, she slipped out of her pants, panties and bra, and managed to cause him to stare as she flipped her panties across the space with her foot.

Laughing, he quickly followed her into the shower.

They managed to get wet and use soap—his soap that smelled like a forest in the spring, Sara decided. Grissom had entered the shower and she had been pulled into his arms and her leg had hooked around his, her nails scraped up his back. She brushed a hand through his hair and then both laughed as she shampooed his hair while he kissed her.

She felt his tongue slide over her, his teeth gently grazed over her shoulder, and nibbled at the nape of her neck. As warm water showered over them, she wondered how this had happened—what had she done to deserve him. Then his lips touched her left breast and his hand found the warm, damp center between her legs and she shuddered.

Somehow, they got out of the shower and wrapped towels around their wet bodies. They circled toward the bed, lowered to it. Sara drew him down, to her as she arched and offered her body as his mouth roamed. Her hands welcomed him, stroking his back, his butt, as she felt his heart beating against hers.

She knew he needed her; she wanted to give to him, to ease away that smudge of sorrow that haunted his eyes when he walked in. She knew there was more to the heat of his lips, to the greed of his hands than a search for satisfaction.

He moved over her as she rose to meet him, sending tremors up her spine and working her flame into a blazing inferno. Finally, he clasped her hands to keep her from arousing him too much, too soon. He tasted her—shoulders, breasts, the long lean line of her—stroking his tongue over her, into her, and caused an explosion; her body went hot and damp at once as pleasure flooded her and then she wanted more.

He gave her more until she could have clawed and screamed to have him; he lifted her hips and was inside her, at last. As her body went lax and dazed with exhaustion, she felt his body tense as he said her name, touched his forehead to hers, and emptied; linked, he fought for breath and she held him close as their bodies merged and minds blurred.

_A/N: There is more to come-several more chapters, so read, enjoy, and let us hear from you! _


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Another chapter-thanks for reading!_

**This Kind of Love **

**Chapter 12**

Sara did not mind lying quietly in bed, her body loose from sex. She could not remember a time when her skin could have floated away and she would not have complained. Her body was so relaxed she wasn't sure her muscles would work—not that she wanted to move—but slowly the circuits in her brain were starting to connect. She could definitely feel the warm body next to hers. That tight yet yielding body, still damp with sweat they'd worked up, smelling of soap and sex and very male, had delivered what could only be termed "mind-blowing sex".

It had been like climbing a quiet, green hill and having it turn into a volcano—like the one in Hawaii, she imagined—unexpectedly erupting in surprising places. She was still surprised by the lust inside him. After all the years of wanting him, dreaming of him, she had not really known what he would give her when he had acted on his feelings.

She had watched, his eyes wild and blue, as he thrust inside her, as he lost himself, and she knew with certainty his actions were serious and genuine. Only now, as her lover slept in satisfied contentment, could her brain process all of this. She could not completely escape the feeling of unease that niggled in the back of her mind.

In all the hours they had spent together, they had laughed and had unbelievably great sex, eaten together and even showered together, but neither of them had said the words—words Sara did not say quickly or easily—and Grissom did not say—had not said the same words. Even in the heated throes of passion, he had said her name, but nothing else.

Gently, she snuggled closer to his warm body, wondering if he would ever love her as she loved him. Perhaps the best she could hope for was this—great sex, his tender affection, and easy companionship. She would not complain if that was all she ever received—it was a great deal more than many people would have.

In his sleep, Grissom moved, stretched, and placed his arm around her, actually pulling her closer to him. Sara smiled. For a man accustomed to sleeping alone—and obviously in the middle of his bed—a bed partner did not bother his sleep. He continued sleeping as his arm wrapped around her waist.

She reached and took his hand in hers, brought it up to her chest, right above her heart, and went through a well-practiced routine to relax. A few minutes later, she was asleep.

When Grissom woke, he could hear Sara breathing beside him, soft and steady. A part of him wanted to turn to her, wake her with his desire for sex. She'd be warm and she would come to life around him. Instead, he got out of bed as quietly as possible and left her sleeping.

After a quick shower, he made coffee and checked on Sara; put raisin bread in the toaster and checked again. He should leave her sleeping, he thought, but after he poured orange juice, he went back into the bedroom and saw that Sara had moved—her fingers played across the pillow where he had slept. He picked up her shirt and walked to the bed, smiling.

"You got a good sleep?"

She smiled an easy smile, "Yes. Did you?" She slipped into her shirt he offered.

Presenting a glass of juice to her, he said, "Yes—good sleep." He sat on the bed facing her.

Sara sat up and took the glass. "Are you going in early?" She took a sip of orange juice sensing there was more to come by the thoughtful look on his face.

He nodded. Taking a deep breath, he knew he had to say what he had resolved to say. "I love you, Sara."

She choked—seriously, orange juice sprayed out of her mouth and blew up the back of her nose, the stinging of it caused sudden tears in her eyes.

Calmly, Grissom patted her arm while she coughed. And just as evenly, he went on, "It took a big blast to get through, I admit. Guess it's been a simmer since we met—and now—now," he chuckled. "Now that it's boiled over—I had this plan—a nice, sensible kind of step by step—but—but," his eyes went from where his hand was on her arm to her eyes, "that's not going to work with us, is it?"

Sara placed the glass on the table and wiped juice droplets off her face for something to do while her mind tried to grasp what he had said. And then he leaned over and kissed her, quickly, a taste of orange juice on his cool lips that surprised her. His words were not what she expected, a little scarier than she had thought.

She managed a smile, and whispered, "Interesting." She cleared her throat and dropped her eyes. "I love you, Gil. Since the beginning, I think—maybe," she said with a quiet laugh. "But once I came to Vegas, you made such a point of being my supervisor…" She managed another laugh; her brain brightened with a lighter response. She said, "And there was always someone—dear Catherine, the perfect Sofia," she managed to suppress a giggle, almost. "Or even Lady Heather, according to gossip—you could have turned to in a pinch."

"Are you laughing at me?" His question was caught between his laughter and taking offense.

"At us, dear Gil—I think I shall call you Gilbert—does anyone else call you Gilbert?" She asked, adding, "Only when we have serious discussions." She lifted her arms around his neck, easily pulling him into the bed, where she proceeded to kiss him for a very long time. So long did she kiss him that he did not get to work early.

Hours later, Sara knew she had a problem. Walking around didn't help, and as she finished her third bottle of water in as many hours, she knew drinking copious amounts of water was not going to solve the problem—the intense burning was not going away. And now she was going to have to tell her supervisor she needed to leave work—much earlier than usual—at the same time she would have to explain to her recent lover the reason.

The last thought caused her to smile; he had said he loved her.

The lab was busy—routinely busy, she knew, as only two new cases were being worked. She walked through the hallway until she saw Grissom who stopped twice to talk with others before entering his office. As she started toward him, someone called his name and he stuck his head out of the office. He saw her and waved, waited until she got to him and said:

"I haven't seen much of you—wait, I'll be right back."

It was fifteen minutes before he returned and Sara tried to read the newspaper she found folded on Grissom's desk.

"Hey," he said when he returned. He wanted to reach over and stroke her face but didn't. Instead, he smiled, saying, "How long before we can get out of here?"

It made her laugh. "You've been busy tonight. From the looks of things, the entire lab has been busy."

Agreeing with her, he said, "It has been quiet enough to get things finished up—let's hope it holds for a few more hours." He sat behind his desk and looked at Sara who was carefully folding his paper. Very quietly, he said, "You are gorgeous."

She laughed, her eyes danced to his. "Shut up."

"No, I take that back," he continued, "you're better than gorgeous. Gorgeous is lucky DNA and you are—you are vivid, fascinating—the sort of thing that comes from within."

Sara sat back, surprised, again at what he said, that he said anything while at work.

He said, "So—is this a work visit? Or just to see me? A social visit? Exclusive—are we?" His voice was soft, husky with potential.

"I need to leave early—to—to take care of something."

His eyebrows lifted. "Anything I should be concerned about?"

Her lips twitched before forming a smile. "As a supervisor—no, it doesn't."

"And?"

Sara knew she blushed like a school-girl as she glanced at his eyes before shifting her gaze to the ceiling. Trying to be blithe, casually, she said, "I think I have a bladder infection." Her eyes met his. "Burns to pee—bad."

A subtle change crossed Grissom's face. Quietly, he said, "I'm so sorry, Sara. Do you have a physician? Someone can see you today?"

"Twenty-four hour clinic—I—I've been there before."

"Doc Robbins could write you a prescription," Grissom said.

She made a face, shaking her head. "I don't want Doc Robbins knowing I've got," a giggle slipped out, "a case of honeymoon cystitis, thank you."

"Oh—oh," Grissom said, his face turned bright pink. "I—I…"

Sara waved her hand, saying "It's fine—really. Quick in and out at the clinic. A round of antibiotics and I'll be fine." He looked so grim she had to smile—and make him smile. "Meanwhile, you're going to need a powder puff to touch me," she cast her eyes downward.

His hand passed across his miserable looking face; he did not smile. "I'm so sorry, Sara," he whispered. "I—I don't know what to say."

Suddenly, she understood. "It's not your fault, Gil," she responded, leaning on his desk. "I—I need to pee after we—you know—and drink more water!"

He nodded, opened a desk drawer and pulled out a slim file. "I'm putting you off the schedule—on leave for three days." He checked several boxes, scratched his signature, and passed the paper across the desk. When she hesitated, he said, "Sign it, please. Please."

"I can work—it's not as if I'm really sick-sick—if you need me, call. I can work," she insisted.

His voice still soft, he said, "I know you can, but take the time off. Drink lots of water." He smiled. "And I'll bring food." His frown disappeared; a grin played around his mouth. "I'll find a powder puff."

_A/N: We appreciate hearing from readers! _


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Another fluff chapter-not sure how many chapters left, so we appreciate hearing from you!_

**This Kind of Love **

**Chapter 13**

Gil Grissom had made plans. True to his word, he brought food for Sara—or Sara to food. He worked off some energy by going home first and changing sheets on his bed, and then he shopped—stopping at a small hardware store for one purchase and then a department store where two ladies were happy to help him make decisions about several female items; with his final stop at the local grocery store, he filled a cart with a dozen items including yogurt, fresh fruit and 'healthy' muffins. Somehow, he had difficulty thinking muffins filled with nuts and chocolate were as healthy as advertised.

Then he called Sara.

Sara had not called him, deliberately. She was scared, truth be told—scared that he had proclaimed he loved her so calmly and easily. Scared that they would make a mistake at work and give away this secret she desperately wanted to keep from the gossipers in the lab. Scared that it would end as simply and suddenly as it had begun.

Then her phone rang.

"I'm coming up," Grissom announced with the same tone he used to assign duties in an exciting case when everyone would grab his enthusiasm.

Sara laughed, saying "What are you doing in my neighborhood? Looking for loose women?"

Before his laughter quieted, her doorbell rang, followed by a tattoo of several knocks.

"Oh! Someone's at my door—got to go!" She opened the door to find a smiling Grissom holding a shiny object between his fingers. "A key?" She asked.

"For you—to my place. So you can go and come." He smiled in a way seldom seen by anyone.

"A key," Sara said again. She was so surprised she could not think of anything else to say.

"Yes, and today—we're going back to my place. Pack your little bag, I have food and some other things and we'll eat, watch a movie." He looked so satisfied with his plans, Sara did not have want to disappoint.

Opening the door and waving him inside, she hesitated before taking the extended key but Grissom didn't seem to notice as he wrapped both arms around her and pushed the door closed with his foot.

He said, "How long has it been? I've wanted to hug you for," he chuckled, "at least twelve hours." Briefly releasing her before taking her face in his hands, he asked, "How are you?" He twined a lock of her hair around his finger. "Tell me you saw a doctor—got meds?"

Sara nodded. "I did—three days, drink lots of water, and—some other advice." Her eyes stayed on the second button of Grissom's shirt. Hurriedly, she added, "No sex for a couple of days." She grimaced, "Not even with a powder puff."

He shrugged. "I did some reading—got you some things and food—I'm so sorry this happened. But—decided to make it movie time," Grissom said, hugging her again. "We'll watch a movie, take a sex-break, eat popcorn and fool around."

She grinned at his "fool around" comment, but asked, "What's the movie?"

"_Vertigo_ or _Rear Window_."

"Okay—I'll go." She was still uncertain about his plans but it did not take her long to pack her bag.

An hour later, standing in his kitchen, Grissom clasp his hands together, a nervous gesture on his part, as he said, "Are you hungry? You can decide—most mornings I eat cereal and fruit—but we have options."

"You have enough to feed a small army," Sara said with a laugh. She had noticed Grissom had kept several bags out of the kitchen and away from her. She held up several figs. "We can watch movies and eat figs!"

"You need more than figs," he said as he opened the refrigerator. He turned with a container of yogurt in his hand. "According to the latest, this stuff might help." He placed the yogurt on the counter and crooked a finger indicating she was to follow him to the sofa. His smile was enough to tell her he was pleased with himself.

When Sara sat down, he strolled across the room and returned with several shopping bags. "I got some things," he said. "I want you to feel at home here." He gave a cautious smile before continuing, "I enjoy having you here—more than I realized—and—and I know a woman likes to have—you know—things."

He handed Sara one of the bags. Inside, she found shampoo, bath soap, deodorant, lotion—all brands that she kept at home-along with a hair brush, a toothbrush, a package of pink razors. He grinned and handed her a second bag.

When her hand touched fabric, she cooed a soft sound, then expressed surprised as she pulled the article of clothing out of the bag. "What? Pants?"

In her hands, she held long pants—a pale gray silky pair—and the confusion on her face showed; she had never worn anything like these. Grissom sat beside her, a grin on his face.

"There's more," he said indicating the bag in her lap.

She reached in again and pulled out another piece of silky fabric—a tee-shirt, barely—with thin straps and lace around the hem. Her eyes widened as her hand withdrew another bundle of multi-colored silk.

"Underwear—panties?" She exclaimed as her fingers counted six panties.

Grissom sat back and smiled. "A powder puff is hard to find! I read about this—this infection," his finger waggled between them. "New bacteria and frequent—and intense sex introduces it." A pink blush spread across his face. "It—it happens—I—that's what the pants are for," his face winced in embarrassment, "and the panties—natural fabric is supposed to help."

Letting his purchases slid to the floor, she reached and took his face between her hands. "You are sweet, Gilbert!"

Grissom kissed her; he wanted to start nibbling on her ear lobe and continue all the way down her neck, her chest, down her belly until he reached the apex of her thighs. But he managed to keep his lips on hers.

Finally, he said, "I want to see this on you," he indicated the gray pants and top. "Get out of those jeans so you can—can—you know—breathe.

A few minutes later, she returned and did a model turn; the pants covered from the waist down but the tee left little to the imagination. Grissom was pleased.

Sara said, "You made a great choice—pants long enough." She pulled the thin straps away from her shoulders and felt her nipples respond to the silk. "I might need a sweater." She bit her lip when he smiled.

He patted the sofa. "I'll start the movie and get your yogurt," he said.

Along with yogurt and a muffin, he brought her a soft blanket from his bedroom, started the movie, and returned to the kitchen to pour cereal into a bowl. "You want cereal?" He asked as he added milk.

"No, I'm fine."

Settling at the opposite end of the sofa as the music and opening credits rolled for _Rear Window_, he decided they were fine, very fine.

And for the first twenty minutes of the movie, they remained apart. Sara had curled under the blanket and at some point Grissom motioned for her to stretch her legs.

"Put your feet here," he said as he patted his thigh.

She hesitated, then swung her feet towards him. He slid over so her feet were in his lap. He gave her toes a light squeeze. With a chuckle, he said, "I should have gotten matching socks for these cold feet."

In another ten minutes, as if by some magical process, Grissom's head was resting against Sara, her arm was draped around his shoulders. Her feet were resting—actually captured—between his thighs and snugly against his groin. He was struggling to follow the movie—or at least keep his attention on the movie instead of Sara's warm hip radiating heat to his belly.

She turned her head and when she spoke, he could feel her breath stirring his hair.

She said, "It's an art—this movie."

He responded by murmuring agreement yet his mind was thinking of her. She was art—graceful, glowing, beautiful. He wanted to smooth his palms over the peaks and valleys of her body, feel the smooth texture of her skin. He wanted to tighten his arms around her and taste her skin where her neck and shoulder met, let her scent fill his nostrils. But he did none of that. Instead, he laced his fingers with hers and attempted to focus on Grace Kelly and Jimmy Stewart.

At the movie's end, laughter bubbled from Sara's lips, revealing her white teeth showing that endearing gap that made him want to kiss her even more.

She said, "I love this movie—good choice." She sighed but did not move; he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.

He had to talk—say something to keep them together on the sofa—so he asked, "What would you do—what's one thing you've never done that you would do if no one would ever know?"

She laughed again. "Can I trust you not to laugh?"

"Well, you can trust me to keep a secret."

Sara seemed to think for a moment and then gave him an impish smile. "I'd go swimming naked."

He gasped in mock astonishment as she burst into laughter. "Now—what would you do? I will never tell!"

"I'd go swimming with you—naked."

Her hand threaded through his hair. Leaning over, Sara kissed the top of his head. "You need to sleep. I am on sick leave so I can sleep any time of the day or night." She wiggled enough to escape the tangle they had woven on the sofa. "Go to bed—I'll stay here."

Groaning as he stood, Grissom took her in his arms. Warmth surged through her as she fit against his body. He sighed against her ear and the intimacy of all of it caused Sara to shiver.

"Will you sleep with me?" He asked. "Just be in bed with me—I promise to sleep in jeans and on top of the covers, but I didn't invite you over to—to sleep on the sofa."

Sara leaned and kissed him. "Gilbert, we are spending entirely too much time together! We work together, we eat together, we sleep together!" She laughed softly, "We've even showered together." Her fingers played with the collar of his shirt. "We may suffocate each other."

Shrugging as he smiled, he said, "Well, when we can't breathe, I'll move to the sofa."

_A/N: We appreciate everyone who is reading-and especially those who send us a comment! If you haven't done so, please do! Thanks!_


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Thank you for reading!_

**This Kind of Love**

**Chapter 14**

Sara was surprised at how quickly Grissom fell asleep—fully clothed, sans shoes, atop the bedcovers. For her, it took a while—had as long as she could remember—but finally, hugging a pillow and pretending not to hear the soft sounds of the man she had loved for so long breathing beside her, her eyes closed, her toes relaxed, and she counted deep, slow breaths until she drifted into a sleep free of remembered dreams.

Grissom slept quickly, easily, and as quickly, he woke from his dream of Sara's face, her hair, swirling in the air as she stood on a hill in brilliant sunlight. She lifted her arms and her clothes slithered down her body; naked, she walked to him. He felt her lips on his as it seemed she surrounded him. She was a wild wind, rushing through him with a heat that all but burned his flesh. When he was fully awake, the dream was fading, leaving only fleeting confusion. He could hear Sara breathing as she slept on the far side of the bed, hugging a pillow as he wanted her to hug him but at least she had stayed.

A smile appeared on his face as he remembered her smothering comment. He was certain she could never smother him. With a great deal of effort, he rolled out of bed and as quietly as possible, went about his usual routine. He closed the bedroom door before checking his phone messages, made coffee, and checked the weather.

Later, he would decide the weather had caused him to disregard his routine—a cloudless sky, a blinding sun promising a beautiful sunset—as he picked up his phone and called Catherine Willows, asking if she would handle the night shift until he got there. More from curiosity than concern, she asked if anything was wrong. Quickly, he assured her he had "a few things he needed to do".

For several minutes, he paced in the kitchen before deciding what he was going to do. He knew Sara had hesitated about coming to his place just as there had been a few seconds of uncertainty before she accepted the key. He also knew she had trouble falling to sleep in his bed.

Making up his mind, he filled a glass with juice and returned to the bedroom. Sara was as he had left her but he knew how quickly she could wake. Placing the juice beside the bed, he reached for several tissues he was fairly certain he would need later and tucked them near his pillow, and then, gently, he placed his hand on her head, letting his fingertips press against her scalp for a moment before slipping fingers through her hair.

Sara woke instantly, confused for only a few seconds before she returned his smile.

"I wanted you awake," he whispered, raking his thumb across her cheekbone. He reached for the glass, lifted her head, and let her drink before saying, "I enjoy waking up with you. And I apologize again for—for…" he grimaced as he twisted his index finger. "Roll onto your stomach."

A wicked thrill zipped through Sara until she remembered; she said, "The infection—remember?"

Grissom leaned over and kissed her. "Trust me, I remember." A low growl followed his words.

She rolled.

He sat beside her, slipped his hands under the gray camisole, and spanned her back with his hands, moving warm palms over her back in slow, arching strokes. The tips of his fingers pressed across her skin, melting into her neck and shoulders. He moved slowly down her back, her hips, and along the length of each leg in long, gentle strokes.

As he worked his hands down her body, Sara could not help herself; she moaned and then she sighed. "This is sinful," she said, adding with a soft laugh, "I should be doing this to you."

For an answer, he slid his thumbs along her arch and around the ball of her foot before he lifted her foot to his lips and kissed her tattoo.

"Turn over," he said, and actually helped her roll over to face him. Then, with gentle hands, he caressed and stroked each leg, never removing her pants.

The depth of the unexpected pleasure he was giving Sara was beyond anything she'd ever experienced. She gave a surprised gasp when he kissed her again, his lips touching her clitoris through the silk. Her hands threaded into his hair, intending to make him stop, but the avalanche of pleasure rushing through her caused her to emit an extended moan and lift her hips off the bed.

Embarrassed by her response, she said, "You don't have to do this."

Sensing her self-consciousness, and well aware of his own throbbing erection, he lifted his head and smiled. "Enjoy this, dear." Then he returned his hands to her hips, stroking her with his thumb until she was gasping. His mouth caught hers in a deep kiss and in a matter of moments, she leaped into an orgasm that trembled her body, twisting and spinning her out of control.

Once he knew she had reached her peak, Grissom reached for the tissues; always proud of his self control, this woman, his dream of feminine desire, had shattered his control, had moved him beyond his wildest dreams. With intuition or instinct that initiated with love, Sara closed her hand over the tissues, slipped her hand inside his boxers, and wrapped warm fingers around his erection as he shuddered with his own climax. As his heartbeat calmed, he felt the silky fabric of her shirt against his face; her arms wrapped around his body.

He knew with the certainty of a scientist that he was completely and absolutely trapped by his need for her. But he did not share his thoughts with Sara.

Instead, he lay beside her, enjoying the lax sensation of sexual relief for several minutes until he gave a soft laugh. He said, "I feel like I'm thirteen again."

For a long moment, Sara was silent. Then she asked, "Thirteen?"

Pulling her close, he chuckled. "I've never told this story to another person."

Sara's arms circled his chest. She kissed his chin and said, "Tell."

Grissom laughed, saying "I can't believe I'm telling you this—but you know my dad died when I was young. And my mom was never—how does a boy's mother explain certain things? She gave me a sex ed book that was all innuendo and allusion which did not explain what was going on. So I'd get a washcloth and take it to bed with me." He chuckled softly. "Pretty soon, the washcloth supply was running low—I was stuffing them behind my bed—and one day my mom asked me if I knew what was happening to them—of course, I said 'no'!"

Sara bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud.

He continued, "I was shoving them behind my bed after I used one! And at thirteen, a boy never thinks about giving his room a good cleaning. One day I came home from school and my room had been cleaned—everything had been moved and cleaned."

Sara choked on her giggles. She felt Grissom's chest move with his own quiet laughter.

"My mother never said a word. She came in the next day with a stack of white washcloths and a big box of tissues. She held up the washcloths and signed 'for the bathroom' and pointed to the box and signed 'for the bedroom'."

Sara was quivering with laughter.

"And she got colored washcloths for herself! And she taught me how to use the washing machine! And I don't think I figured out that she had found—you know—the used ones for another week!"

Sara had balled her fist against her mouth but she could not hide her shaking body. "I'm sorry," she finally managed.

Grissom laughed with her. "Thirteen—woke up with a boner, went to sleep with one—all I had to do was think of a girl—actually, it was my math teacher, so she was a woman—and I'd—I'd get this sudden hard-on! Did not tuck my shirt in for three years!"

Another round of giggles erupted from Sara as she remembered how he still wore baggy shirts—and a buttoned-up lab coat. She lifted her head and propped her chin on her hand and asked, "Does this happen now?"

Grinning, he took her face between his palms. "You know it does, dear. Now—if we can get out of bed and—and keep our hands away from each other, I want to take you somewhere."

When her eyebrows lifted, he added, "You'll like it—promise."

"Work? What about the lab?"

Grissom laughed again; he said, "I called Catherine—said I'd be late. She loves to be in charge."

…No matter how many times he saw it, Grissom was always amazed by the sunset at Red Rocks—a fact he had never shared with anyone until today.

"We can sit here or take a short walk if you feel like it," he said as he pulled to a stop in a small empty parking lot. "Up there," he said, pointing to a ridge, "the sunset will be spectacular."

"I'm fine, really, Gil. Let's walk."

He reached behind them and brought out two bottles of water. Handing one to Sara, he asked, "Are you drinking enough?"

She laughed and took the bottle, saying, "Yes, I am!"

The two were well matched—or familiar with each other's pace—and easily climbed to the ridge. They found flat spots on adjoining rocks and sat in comfortable silence for several minutes. The sun warmed and highlighted the magnificent landscape before them; Grissom leaned forward and pointed to a shadowed crevice.

"To the left of the those bushes—do you see her?"

Sara followed the direction of his finger. "Ahhh," she whispered as she saw the sheep, and then another soft exclamation as she saw two smaller ones in the undergrowth beside her. "How did you…"

"There's a spring that pools around those bushes. I've seen her before but today's the first time I've seen her babies."

"You come here often?"

Grissom nodded his head. "One way I shake some of it off."

Sara smiled, saying, "Red Rocks and roller coasters. You are an interesting man, Gil."

Giving her a smile, he took her hand. "So are you, Sara, so are you."

Easily, one mirrored the other as they watched the sheep and then turned to watch the sun set. There were shimmers of pink and swirls of deep blue with streaks of orange and red. The rocks, ridges, and mountains added more colors.

"I think this is perfection," Sara murmured.

Grissom laced his fingers with hers. "Are you going to get weirded out if I say I'm in love with you?"

She didn't speak for a moment. She knew it had taken a long time for him to say those words. She knew she loved him but this kind of love was uncharted for her. "I don't know—I might."

He looked at her and smiled, "Guess we'll find out."

The sun hung low on the horizon; the orange and red overpowered the softer yellows and blues for several minutes before the edge of the sky became pink. The couple watched in silence until the bright edge of light disappeared.

Without turning her head, Sara said, "Maybe we should focus on the moment—enjoy what we have. Live with that."

Tightening his grip on her hand, Grissom chuckled. "I'll take that."

_A/N: We appreciate everyone reading-thanks and a few more chapters to come._


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: Thanks for reading! Enjoy! _

**This Kind of Love **

**Chapter 15**

Gil Grissom knew he had looked at the same report for the past half hour. Rubbing his hand across his face, he stopped pretending to read and stared at the closed door. The past two weeks had been—for one of the few times in his life he could not adequately describe his life. His hand hid his grin. 'Indescribable' would do. And it wasn't just the sex.

Not for the first time, he relived the moments—the hours—he had never dreamed, never thought he would experience. All because of one woman. Heat coiled deep in his belly. He picked up a case folder and opened it, seeing nothing as he daydreamed.

After her round of antibiotics, both of them were ready to resume their love-making—and did. Sara had initiated it by opening her door wearing a pale yellow, short diaphanous shirt or gown that seemed to float around the curves of her body. As she stepped back into her apartment, he had shed clothes with every step. At some point, he realized a change had been made.

Her apartment was the same—but something was different. As he was unbuttoning his shirt—and Sara was flitting around her kitchen like a butterfly with gossamer wings—he realized candles were everywhere. Her windows were darkened so there was a mix of light and shadows; he could smell flowers. As he turned, he saw her sofa had new pillows and a thick blue throw was draped over the back.

He must have stopped undressing because suddenly Sara was beside him, an impish grin on her face, asking, "Are you ready for sex?"

Standing in her living room, shirt almost off, pants unzipped, shoes off, he laughed. She was almost naked; there was a tiny triangle of fabric between her thighs but the transparent, shimmering covering did nothing to conceal her dark nipples. He asked, "Is that a trick question?"

She smiled and crooked her finger. "Come on, cutie. I'm ready!"

His shirt hit the floor before she took two backward steps.

Since then, they had been together more than not. He had not officially moved clothes into Sara's closet even though he had several shirts and pants there. She had a few personal things including underwear, socks, pajamas, and jeans, in his condo, but too often she would leave him sleeping in his bed and return to her apartment. For now, he had not pursued her reasons for leaving him because of her 'smothering' comment. But he was already thinking of a way to overcome being left alone and to prevent Sara from feeling smothered.

Except he had a problem. Correction, he thought, he had caused a problem. With that thought, the swelling in his pants began to retreat. He closed the folder he had just opened. He was going to have to face the consequence of his decision because no one else could patch this up except him. Taking off his lab coat, he left his office.

The first person he met was David Hodges. Grissom asked, "Have you seen Sara?"

"No, sir, but I have a few things in…"

"Results, Hodges, put 'em on my desk."

Grissom hurried on—he did not want to be deterred by some long-winded explanation of a lab process. He got to the front desk; Judy Tremont always kept up with who was in the building.

"Judy, have you seen Sara?"

"Hi, Dr. Grissom!" the always cheerful secretary responded. "Sara left about five minutes ago—going to eat, she said."

"Thanks," Grissom waved as he was half-way out the door.

Greg Sanders was coming into the building.

"Greg, have you seen Sara?"

The young CSI pointed east, saying, "She's going to the sushi place down the street."

Grissom stopped, turning in mid-step. "Sara eats sushi?"

Grinning, Greg said, "Yeah, they have vegetarian sushi." Pausing for a few seconds, he asked, "Is she okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, she's fine—why do you ask?"

Greg shrugged. "She was off for three days and now she's not in the field," he said.

Grissom waved him off, saying, "She's fine—I need to find her." He took off in the direction of the sushi place.

A few minutes later, he spotted Sara sitting alone at the bar—and she saw him. Her smile grew as he took the seat beside her.

"How's the octopus?" He asked.

Sara laughed and pointed to her plate, saying, "No octopus or fish, just tofu. Try it—you might enjoy."

The waiter showed up and Grissom looked at Sara. He asked, "Will you be upset if I eat shrimp or tuna?"

Sara shook her head and was surprised at the ease that he ordered without a menu.

"I don't remember seeing you in here before tonight," she said with a laugh.

"You haven't, but sushi is usually standard—vinegared rice and—and something else." He pointed to her plate. "Go ahead and eat." He watched as she ate, finally saying, "I'm sorry, Sara."

When she did not raise her eyes to his, he continued, "I—I just want you near me—to know where you are—to know you are safe."

"So while you do paperwork, I hang around the lab—doing what? While everyone else is out in the field?" Irritation edged her voice.

His plate arrived and both remained silent until the waiter left.

Sara continued, "That's—that's not what we talked about."

Grissom rearranged the food on his plate before he spoke. "I know we did—I wasn't going to treat you differently," he sighed. "But reality—I'm sorry." A soft chuckle rose from deep in his chest.

"What's so funny?"

"Truth is—I didn't want you going to Sand Valley and pulling a double working that dead body so I sent Nick and Sofia. Warrick and Catherine can handle the bank and Greg went to the body in Summerlin and he's already returned. And he smells of decomp.

Sara pushed her plate away, saying, "You have to let me work, Gil." A wide smile crossed her face. "I have lemons, you know."

"You're not angry?"

"No, I'm not angry," she murmured. "I'll help Greg for a while."

"I'll see you later?" Grissom asked as he signaled the waiter. "Can I get a carry-out for this?"

"You should never carry-out sushi," Sara said with a laugh.

"Are we okay?" Grissom asked as he reached for both checks.

"We're fine, Gil."

Later, they realized it was the quiet before the storm—or the eye of a hurricane swirling around them, both unaware for a moment. They walked back to the lab keeping a professional distance between their bodies even as their thoughts channeled to bring them together; greeted at the door by the undersheriff and Jim Brass, thoughts evaporated as Sara realized again that some cases took priority over all others.

Hours later, Sara showered and changed her clothes in an effort to erase the stench that seemed to permeate her pores; it was a smell she hated. Grissom was waiting as she exited the women's side of the dressing rooms.

"Let's get out of here," he said.

With a slight acknowledgement, she followed him out the door. Leaving in separate vehicles, Sara let him lead the way—surprised that he pulled into her place.

As he opened her car door, he said, "I—I thought you might want your place today." He reached for her hand. "It's a crazy world we live in."

She managed a laugh, "Crazy isn't the half of it."

Their hands connected, their arms stretched to full length. For a moment they stared at each other; Sara felt her heart beat faster. Getting out of the car, she did not hug him, not in the bright sunlight, but passed him, tugging his hand to draw him toward her apartment where so much had happened in a short time.

There were no more words. Not as they walked up the stairs; not as she opened the door to her deserted apartment. Not as he closed the door behind them and brought her against his body and kissed her. Not as the weight and movement of his body pressed against her skin, doubling the pleasure of having him—all of him—to herself. Silently, she fed her hunger to touch him, removing his shirt as he stripped hers away.

There was a sound from him, not a word, but a rumble of male satisfaction as they tumbled onto cool sheets. As Sara touched his face, the heat emanating from his body made her gasp. Without a word, she suddenly understood; his eyes were those of a man who had seen too much tonight.

"It's all right, Gil. We are together."

"I need you, Sara—more than anything in my life."

She wrapped her arms around him. "I'm here," she whispered.

Another sound came at finding her wet and hot, ready for him. He wasted no motions as he maneuvered her legs with firm hands, centered himself over her, and thrust. The instant pressure transformed into pleasure. Sara wrapped her legs around his as he slid hands under her butt, bringing them into fuller contact with each thrust.

Urgency built in her body as sensation after pleasurable sensation traveled along her spine, produced a brightness in her brain that seemed to blind her. And she was lost. As echoes of her climax slowed, Grissom's thrusts intensified. She matched him and felt another kind of pleasure when his head jerked back with a rasping sound and his body shuddered.

Sara almost laughed as she realized the rapidity of what they had done but her skin was cooling—Grissom's skin was almost chilly—and she wanted to reach for the covers. But if she moved, so would he and she had grown to love the intensely intimate awareness of having him inside her body after climax.

When he moved, it was to roll both of them to their sides so they were face to face. He slipped an arm under her neck and hooked a leg over her to draw her close. He leaned over and kissed her forehead and then ran his lips along her eyebrow. And then did the same to the other. It was oddly erotic, Sara thought.

His hand on her back, he pulled her closer and kissed her below the ear and then started tasting the skin of her neck with his teeth, his tongue, his lips. He returned to her mouth, exploring with his tongue, stroking her mouth in an unmistakable rhythm. His hand cupped over her breast, circling, gently triggering circuits of pleasure throughout her body.

She heard his quiet words, "I didn't mean for this to be so quick."

When she laughed, he lowered his face and caught her nipple with his mouth, his tongue moving, his lips pulling with a persistent gentleness. His hand moved lower, caressing her, separating her folds.

"Foreplay after" her breath caught as his finger entered her but she managed to finish, "sex—interesting."

He raised his head, a clever grin on his face.

"Not after—between."

_A/N: We are waiting for reviews from you before making the decision to end or to continue this story. We had thought it would continue for several more chapters, however, we may decide for this chapter to be the last one - your response will decide. Thanks for reading! _

_It's sad for GSR fans that the powers that be (CSI) decided to end a wonderful romance as they did in season 13. Not sure there is a way to repair it-or if they will even try. _

_Again, we appreciate everyone's support (readers), and especially grateful for those readers to take time to review. _


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: To celebrate 14 seasons of CSI-For those who asked and encouraged-here's the next chapter! Enjoy! and thanks for reading!_

**This Kind of Love**

**Chapter 16**

Grissom shifted in bed, pleasantly surprised to find a warm body still sleeping next to him. Dark hair spread across the pillow, her shoulder was bare, and a thin black strap of the tee-shirt she wore contrasted with her pale skin. He had learned she preferred soft cotton shirts and pants for sleeping instead of the sexy lingerie she had worn—he had purchased for her—in the beginning. He smiled as he wrapped an arm around Sara Sidle in a demonstrative gesture that would have shocked and surprised their co-workers.

He loved the feel of her smooth skin; he moved closer and inhaled. He loved her fragrance.

He knew she had been exhausted when she left work; he had found her asleep in his bed when he had gotten home and within minutes, he was asleep beside her. And over the past weeks, he had decided sleeping with Sara ranked in the top three enjoyable things he did on a regular basis—the other two involved her, too. A grin tugged at his lips; sleeping came after sex and kissing and then came talking, eating, watching a movie, and waking up with her was on the list.

Surprised at his own thoughts, immersed in the sensations of the intimacy of having the woman he loved in his bed, his lips touched Sara's shoulder. In less than ten seconds, she opened her eyes.

"Gil," she whispered as she rolled from her stomach to her side. "You got home—I didn't even know—I guess I was sleeping so soundly—sorry."

She smelled of mint and some faint fragrance he would always associate with being in bed with her. Her fingertips touched his cheek; he moved his face slightly to catch her fingers between his lips. She smiled.

Taking her hand in his, he said, "We were both exhausted. I didn't want to wake you but," he kissed her fingers, "I—we both needed to sleep. I'm pleased you came—that you stayed."

Curling beside him, Sara nuzzled her face against his shoulder. "What about…?"

Grissom kissed the top of her head. "Everything will be fine. We'll go to work," softly, he chuckled, "and we'll be back here—maybe not so exhausted."

In a sudden rush of movement, he pulled her to his chest and kissed her, gently before capturing her with a deep, open-mouthed kiss that caused a flame to spark that turned into a burning sensation of love and desire. As if the kiss was not enough, his mouth moved to her ear and then his lips begin to make a path down her neck.

"I need you, Sara. I need to make love to you. I need you with me."

The sound of his voice fired a shudder of passion throughout Sara's body. Her hand moved to find the waist band of his boxers and she slid her hand inside. His response was a groan of pleasure while she touched her lips to the curve of his shoulder. She made her own path of kisses down his chest, pushing his shirt away as her lips found the smooth skin of his stomach.

Grissom uttered a husky murmur as he managed to roll above her; Sara wrapped her legs around him unable to get close enough, wanting, craving what she knew he was going to do.

His lips sought the silky skin of her neck as his hands slid the shirt off her—quickly returning lips to her neck as he tossed the shirt away.

"You feel good," he whispered, reaching to push her pants down as she wiggled free. After their hands removed his boxers, she pressed her hands on his chest and rolled onto him.

"Lie back—relax," she said as she pressed her palm to his chest.

With a grin, he said, "Not possible—not with…" His hands cradled her breasts as she eased herself down onto him, melting around him, surrounding his erection with warmth and gentle pressure. He felt her move. "God," he moaned as his hands moved around her hips. He could not take his eyes away from her body.

The hard swell of him filled Sara with soaring pleasure; she tipped her head back, swaying to their joined rhythm, moving with a controlled effort until she needed more, so she thrust faster, her thighs clinching, pressing, until she was depleted of strength, drained of energy.

Grissom raised up enough to roll them over. Within moments, his hips were pumping against hers, deeper each time as she arched her back. The sensation of being buried inside her almost sent him over the edge—too soon.

"Gil," she whispered, desire and pleasure woven into his name.

Just as she thought no ecstasy could be more perfect than this, her body exploded in a thousand flashing fireworks; she bit her lip to suppress the urge to cry out his name. All the sensual pleasures seemed to come at once until she was spent, collapsing onto the bed in a shudder.

In a few moments, desire rolling through him as Sara's palms smoothed over his back; he leaped into the same passionate blaze that had exploded in Sara.

Sara loved this moment—when his body trembled on top of hers; still inside her, still hard as he came and then he moved slowly as a reminder, staying inside her until he also collapsed, trying to hold himself on knees and elbows as his weight pressed on her.

Grissom caressed her face, her hair, gently kissing her until they moved, winding legs and linking fingers until they were united into the appearance of one body. The last thing Sara heard before she drifted to sleep was a soft click of the clock indicating it was late in the day.

Later, as Sara showered and dressed, Grissom prepared food—he had learned to cook with eggs and cheese, asparagus and black beans, instead of bacon and sausage, burgers and chops. It was a change, but he enjoyed serving a plate of food to Sara and watching her eat. He timed it right—as she walked into the kitchen, he was placing the frittata on her plate.

He greeted her with, "You are beautiful, dear," and leaned across the counter to kiss her.

Smiling, Sara said, "And you are spoiling me or you want something—other than sex!" She accepted the plate and slipped onto the chair as he turned to get his plate.

"We never got to talk yesterday," Grissom said as he poured coffee into two cups. He sat across from her and indicated she should eat. "You know it makes sense—we—we are together almost all of the time!" He paused to eat; Sara said nothing so he continued.

"I can sell this place—there is not an empty unit in the building—and we could buy a place together—you could pick it out! Say yes—don't think about it—just say yes." He speared his fork into the frittata and smiled. But he had to wait several long moments for Sara to speak.

"I—I don't think I'm ready, Gil." Sara pinched her lips together as she formed her thoughts. "I—we do enjoy being together, don't we?" She smiled and reached for his hand. "But I'm not ready to announce 'us' to everyone and moving in together—we would become the chief topic of gossip!""

"I've thought about this—we don't have to tell anyone. My personal life stays out of the lab—you know I don't have people over for dinner! You are the same way—when was the last time anyone was at your apartment?" He smiled with a look of satisfaction across his face. "I'll let you decide—decorate it. You can pick out a—a white picket fence if you want."

"Gil," Sara hesitated, conflicted with the struggle in her mind. She sighed and moved her food around.

"Eat, honey. We don't have to decide this now," Grissom said as he chuckled. "But we could buy a bigger bed."

Sara laughed. "You don't like my queen? It's the biggest bed I've ever slept in." She did not add that it was the first new bed she had ever slept in.

"My offer still holds—I think we might enjoy living together."

Sara nodded. They ate in silence for several minutes until Sara said, "I—I grew up living with other people, sleeping in bunk beds. I had a little suitcase that I kept my own things in. Then I went to college—scholarships, you know—and another shared room." She stopped talking, took a deep breath, and continued. "I learned I could be a dorm monitor and have my own room—so—guess who had a private room by my sophomore year?" She made a soft laugh. "And I loved it—the privacy, putting my things out and no one touching them." She raised her eyes to his. "It's not you—or us—it's me."

Grissom's blue eyes sparkled as he smiled, thinking "This was going to be a tough sell," but he said, "You'll know when it's right." He laughed, "If I sell this condo, can I move in with you?"

"Yeah," she said, laughing with him, "but if you keep parking at my apartment, someone's going to notice."

"We can find a place with a garage!"

"Will you still cook for me if we live together?"

"Yes. We could find a place and make it our own—a new house—with a yard."

"No," Sara said, shaking her head. "I—I don't think I want a yard."

Grissom teased, "No white picket fence?"

She wrinkled her nose, "No picket fence—but windows—I'd like windows. My apartment has two."

A deep chuckle formed in Grissom's chest and he began to eat, but he was making a list. His phone chirped and as he answered several questions, he knew it would be another long shift.

When he ended the call, he said, "I'm going in early." He leaned across the space separating them and kissed her. She tasted of a sweetness he found hard to resist and for a few seconds he thought of deepening the kiss and taking her back to his bed.

Instead, he tucked a length of her hair behind her ear as he released her lips. He asked, "Are you happy, Sara?"

Sara studied his face, his wide blue eyes, and placed her hand on his face. "I am happy, Gilbert."

Her simple words caused a smile. Suddenly, she smiled as she asked, "If we should decide to live together, could we get a dog? I've always wanted a dog—a real dog, not one of those little fluffy things but a real dog."

Grissom smiled, adding to his list as he said, "A dog—if we got a dog we'd live together?"

Sara nodded, "Yeah, a real dog—I'd like a dog." Using her fork, she indicated her plate, "and you would still cook if we lived together?"

"Not only would I continue to cook, I'd also continue to be romantic." His smile became a smug grin. He picked up his plate. "And I'll continue to help with the dishes."

Sara giggled as he walked across the kitchen still wearing his boxers, a faded tee-shirt, and socks. He was a romantic, she decided, and considerate and caring. There was a part of Gil Grissom that was unknown to those who worked with him, she thought. And he wanted to live with her—he said he loved her. She pushed her chair back and stood, taking her plate to the sink.

"Get dressed. I'll take care of these," she said. She kissed him and, as he turned to walk away, she patted his butt. "Nice ass," she said.

_A/N: Thank you! Now, do the right thing-leave us a comment, a few words, a review! Two or three more chapters coming._


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: A new chapter-and one some have been waiting for!_

**This Kind of Love **

**Chapter 17**

"You are a gambler at heart, Gilbert Grissom!"

Grissom leaned back on the sofa and smiled. "You are right," he said with a laugh.

Sara shook her head. "I—I don't think I'm ready to give up my apartment."

"You don't have to do that—just help me find another place—and decorate it—find furniture you like."

"I need a—a mailing address."

Grissom reached over and gently seized her chin between his fingers. "You can do as I do—have all your mail delivered to the lab. No one will question it." And before Sara could reply, he leaned over and kissed her.

Gently, at first and then by mutual consent, his lips sought her and she leaned in and responded in kind. By the time they broke apart to breathe, they were both in a state of arousal and desire. Sara was still amazed at how long they could kiss each other. She had called it "old fashioned lust" and Grissom had laughed as if it were the funniest joke he had ever heard.

Very slowly and very deliberately, they moved toward his bedroom and the double bed they had made up with fresh sheets a short while ago. Grissom had this method of pulling her body against his and pushing his pelvis against her hips that caused a tremendous sensation to radiate down her legs, up her spine and to her fingertips.

As gently as his kisses, Grissom pushed her onto the bed and continued to kiss her—her eyelid, her earlobes, a spot at the base of her neck where the sensation of pleasure shifted to bolts of lightning. From that point, clothes came off—when his palm smoothed across her chest and cradled her breast, everything seemed to vanish except for the intimate feel of his hand cupping her flesh.

On the bed, Sara stretched contentedly as she watched Grissom wiggle out of his pants and once he was free of clothes, he was beside her, close and warm.

She felt his hand touch the back of her head and a new urgency kindled the growing flames. She explored his body until he reached down and shifted her body so he could look into her eyes. She only had time to gasp before his fingers gently slipped into the warmth between her legs as he began to coax, to tease, to caress her into a state of rampant desire.

During the weeks of sharing a bed, Gil Grissom had learned much about the woman in his bed. When, finally, he entered her with a sureness of his welcome, he repeatedly said her name, telling her of his pleasure and desire for her as she surrendered to this exquisitely human passion.

She luxuriated in the piercing feel of the man who was exhorting her to take a risk, to take a journey with him. She was alive; she could touch and taste and see the essence of the man who proclaimed his love for her. She was in his bed and, with him, she sensed a loving presence.

Much later, completely clothed and driving across town, Sara listened to her boss—and lover—tease Greg Sanders about his driving skills. Carefully, she made a remarkably smooth stop next to the curb and turned to her front-seat passenger who could not stop the corners of his mouth pulling into a grin.

Grissom, his laughter breaking, said, "Well done, Miss Sidle. Your many talents continue to amaze me!"

"Thank you," she said, just a bit breathless after her race driving efforts across town. "I aim to please." Unspoken was the desire to be off-the-clock before the sun came up.

Grissom put his head back and laughed as he covered his relief that they had arrived at the scene in one piece. There was no denying that Sara could probably drive better than anyone on his team. Glancing at the back seat, he asked, "You still back there, Greg?"

"Yeah," answered the younger CSI. "And dry," he added.

All three were smiling as they got out of the vehicle. Greg headed toward the yellow crime tape; Grissom held back as Sara walked around to get her case out of the back seat. It seemed to her as if an arc of electricity connected them; they locked glances and each leaned imperceptibly toward the other.

Sara stopped first. In broad daylight—well, dawn, she thought, glancing over Grissom's shoulder—they had almost kissed.

"We can't do this!" She whispered, lifting her case between them.

Grissom reached out and touched her arm. "All that's going on—no one would notice if I threw you in the back and had sex with you for the next—oh—thirty minutes!"

She turned to stare at him, wide-eyed and then realized he was teasing her.

He chuckled, saying, "Sorry—you look so delicious—desirable—all that fast driving—your face flushed and beautiful—I like that." He took her case from her hand and turned to walk away.

When Sara remained in one place as she tried to process what he had just said, he turned and looked at her. He winked, nodded his head in the direction of the crime tape, saying, "Don't be late!"

Grissom found himself thinking about Sara more often that he should, but he did not postpone what had to be done. With Sara and Greg working the scene, he had time to consider their situation. Sara was adamant their relationship remain secret because of lab policy; they would not be able to work together. What he really wanted was for Sara to move in with him and she was almost obstinate about it. Yet as he watched her work with Greg and talk with the detective and speak to the group of homeless men hovering along the fence, he knew it wasn't stubbornness that kept Sara from agreeing to a new living arrangement. There was something else—some uncertainty on her part that caused the reluctance.

The crime scene did not take long—two homeless men fighting over meager possessions, cutting with sharp objects until one cut a deep and fatal wound in the other. The coroner's van had arrived and the crew wrapped the body as Greg and Sara stood back. As the body was lifted from the ground, a sudden commotion occurred among the homeless onlookers; several men yelled as a large brown dog ran toward the van.

Everyone was shouting, moving, trying to catch the dog as he slipped around hands and bodies. Quick thinking, Dave Phillips lowered the gurney as the dog reached it and the crowd sadly watched as the dog showed grief as only a loved pet can; the dog's head rested against the black plastic. A paw lifted and lay on the unseen body.

One of the policemen lifted the crime tape so a man could get to the dog.

"Come on," the old homeless man tugged at the collar around the dog's neck but the dog resisted, whining. The old man pulled again; everyone at the scene cringed.

Grissom stepped forward, handing Greg several folded bills as he did. "Go across the street and get something—something a dog will like." He walked to the back of the van and talked with the man a few minutes until Greg returned with a wrapped hot dog.

Sara was on the phone with animal control, watching as Grissom pinched off an inch of the hot dog and offered it to the dog. After several bites, Grissom managed to move the dog away from the body.

"Go get another one, Greg."

Greg jogged across the street, returning in minutes with more hot dogs.

Sara knelt beside the dog and rubbed her hand along his back. "He's covered in fleas," she said. She looked up at the homeless man and asked, "Who will take care of him now? I've called animal control—they will clean him up and vaccinate him but he'll need someone to claim him."

The old man began to back away. "Not me—we—we all got dogs. Can't they find him a home? Where he don't have to move around?" His rheumy eyes met Sara's. "He's a good dog—he don't bark much."

Grissom asked, "What's his name?"

"Hank, old Tom called him Hank."

_A/N: SO-we've got a dog named Hank...now what? Thanks for reading, thank you to those who review and comment!_


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: A new chapter...regardless of what happens on CSI, there is fanfiction. Here's hoping GSR continues in spite of what goes on with the current season. _

**This Kind of Love**

**Chapter 18**

Grissom stood outside Sara's apartment door, his knuckles ready to knock. He knew she had checked on the dog—Hank had quickly learned he had two new owners and even though the dog ate and slept in Grissom's condo, the dog favored Sara because she played with him. And this morning, he had brought the dog with him.

After leaving work, Sara had stopped at Grissom's condo and taken Hank for a short walk. The dog wanted to play but she had not been to her apartment in a week. She knew her mailbox was full and her neighbor was probably ready to report her as a missing person. She showered and, wrapped in a towel, she flipped through her mail and found one envelope she tore open. The letter was about her mother.

The quick rapping on the apartment's door caused her to jump. But relieved for the distraction, she checked the peephole, thinking it was probably her neighbor, and then smiled when she saw Grissom's face smiling at her. She had expected him to call but was delighted to have him instead of his voice.

When she opened the door, she got another unexpected surprise when Hank bounced into the small apartment. Grissom had released his hold on the dog's leash and immediately both man and dog were inside and filling the space around her.

Sara leaned to hug the dog, petting his head, talking to him, and getting returned attention as if she had been missing for weeks instead of an hour.

"Well, now I know where I stand in this relationship!" Grissom managed to close the door and move into the small living area.

The dog bumped against a stool; his tail swept across the coffee table and sent Sara's mail sailing across the room.

"Sit, Hank. Sit," Sara commanded and the dog did as she instructed but his tail twitched against the floor with excitement. She turned to her lover; her eyes softened as she placed both hands on his shirt, sliding up and around his neck.

"I don't have to tell you to sit, dear," she whispered as her lips met his.

His hands were immediately searching—unwrapping her towel until he touched her skin. Hearing a soft laugh, she felt his warm breath on her neck. He said, "Naked Sara—my favorite…" he managed to push the towel to the floor, "and my favorite little tush." His hands caressed her butt and snugged her against his body. He made a soft moan, "and damp hair—another favorite." He laughed again.

Sara tried to wiggle free, saying, "I'm almost ready to leave." She laughed, "We don't want to get Hank excited again."

Grissom released her, both laughing as they remembered Hank's agitation the first time they had made love after bringing the dog home. Misunderstanding what was happening, probably connecting their actions to fighting, he had barked, circling the bed, until Grissom had gotten up and closed the dog out of the bedroom.

"I'll be right back," Sara said with a smile.

He patted her bare bottom as she bent to retrieve the towel; both he and the dog followed her into the bedroom. Not for the first time, Grissom was amazed at how restful her bedroom was—neat and pretty—compared to his own bare-bones arrangement. A new idea formed in his mind. While she dressed, he returned to the living room and started picking up the mail scattered across the floor.

He gathered two magazines, half a dozen advertising flyers, several bills, a bank statement, and what he thought was a form letter until he glanced at the attached page. He knew he was prying into Sara's personal mail when he read the letter about her mother—and learned for the first time that Sara was sending money each month for her mother's care.

He heard Sara talking to Hank and he quickly shuffled her mail together as she walked into the living room, the dog following.

"All set," she said. "Thanks for coming—you didn't have to do that."

Grissom grinned. "Hank wanted a ride." He kissed her as he took her bag, thinking he would like to gather up everything on her tables and counter top to take with them. As she locked the door, he said, "Let's go shopping later."

She turned a perplexed face to his. "Shopping," she asked, "for what?"

"A new bed—one of those king size ones—and furniture to go with it. My bedroom looks—looks not good compared to yours. And we could use a bigger chest—more drawers for your underwear." His blue eyes sparkled with amusement.

Sara laughed, "Is this part of moving in together?"

She got her answer when he turned to her with a satisfied smile. Then his face changed to a warm, reassuring smile. "We've got a dog—we need a bed—and we—we are going to find a new place for both of us."

He saw a flash of uncertainty cross her face; panic he would almost name it. They were standing in the stairway of her apartment building where no one would notice two people and a dog.

"Come here," he said softly.

Sara took three steps toward him and collided with his chest; her face pressed into his shoulder. Her fingers held onto his shirt. Beneath her touch, he stilled. For several seconds she could not feel him breathe. She closed her eyes, breathing in the subtle scent of him, without knowing he was doing the same. She felt his arms around her, her bag banging against her backside, their dog weaving around their legs. Suddenly, she knew what she must say.

"What if I move in with you? Into your condo? We—we can live there."

A smile spread across Grissom's face. "Today—what about moving in today?" He laughed and hugged her tighter. His condo had only one bedroom and the closets were small; they would never get her things moved into the place.

He leaned forward and caught her lips with his own, briefly, before he released his hold, shifted her bag and said, "Drive your car today. We've got some planning to do."

He was smiling as he followed Sara back to his condo.

Later, stretched on the sofa, Grissom's eyes closed; he didn't see Sara lean to him, didn't know she was going to kiss him until she did. The kiss was strong, confident; her fingers threaded through his hair. His mouth opened to hers as her tongue flitted across his teeth.

He could not stop himself from wanting this woman, he thought. Without separating their lips, he managed to stand and as they stepped toward the bedroom, Sara tossed a dog treat to Hank. Grissom closed the door.

Fingers stroked her back; her hands slipped underneath his shirt. He breathed into her ear, soft and warm, causing a shiver to dance down her spine and her nipples to harden. Sara tilted her head and his tongue made a path along her neck to the pulse point at its base.

He murmured something against her skin, familiar words that she recognized as "You are so beautiful."

"More," she whispered, wanting to hear the sexy tone in his voice, as her shirt was pushed away.

He murmured again, clearly saying, "You are beautiful and sweet." He nibbled on her ear lobe and sent tremors through her causing her back to arch and her legs to curl.

She needed to touch him, to feel his warm skin against hers, to taste him as he was tasting her. Quickly, she jerked his shirt off seconds before he unhooked her bra and suddenly they were naked from the waist up. His hands ran across her chest, his thumbs caressed her breasts. She touched his chest, kissed his chin, his jaw, as his body tightened.

When she took his face between her hands, he inhaled a strong breath and relaxed. When they kissed again, it was harder, filled with passion and intent.

He found the top button of her jeans and quickly pushed them off. Sara moved her hand lower and found the waistband of his pants. When she undid the zipper, the denim gave way and she felt his swollen penis pop free; their eyes met as she pushed and he wiggled until he was naked.

Sara had no need to look at the man beside her but her core tightened and she felt a flush on her skin, a wetness between her legs. He always did this to her, she thought; she wanted him inside her now, but he showed no intention in that specific direction as he stroked the length of her body with one hand. She lay there, fighting the urge to beg—plead for haste.

When his fingers finally touched her, gentle as the touch of silk, she stopped breathing for several seconds, knowing what was coming and unable to stop her response. He leaned over and softly blew on her clitoris before running a finger over her folds, separating them, stroking more until heat built inside her and she knew she could go to orgasm from the touch of his fingers. She gasped and grabbed his hand.

Gently, he pushed her back to the bed, keeping one hand on her breast, circling her nipple with his thumb as he kept the other hand between her legs. His finger swirled over the nub of her sex and continued until she was knotting fists into the sheet and when she thought she could take no more, she was sure she would explode without him inside her, he rolled above her.

Entering Sara was an indescribable sensation, Grissom thought, as he inserted his organ into her. It felt as if her body was pulling him inside. He pushed, gently, pulled out and moved forward again, faster. Sara was tight and he was big and she was everything he had ever imagined.

Sara's entire body reacted to his thrusts, tightened until tremors shot through her and sent her spiraling, losing track of time and place until her climax exploded, and then she floated back to earth, back to her dearest Gil and the warmth of his body.

_A/N: Thanks for reading; we appreciate all readers, and especially those who comment! _


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: Thanks so much for reading!_

**This Kind of Love**

**Chapter 19**

Gil Grissom sat at the dining room table, tapping his fingers on the stack of papers under his hand, waiting for Sara to get home. He had taken a rare day off and spent most of it searching for certain files in the boxes stacked against the wall where he had once kept his cockroaches. Glancing around the area, he was satisfied with what he saw—he didn't look at the space near the door where the boxes were—but Sara had worked wonders with his kitchen, the dining area and the living room. It wasn't overcrowded as he had thought it would be when she had agreed to move into his condo. And the bedroom had been transformed—again, Sara's decorating skills had impressed him. But they were still in his condo—and he was determined to move into a larger place, with enough room for both of them to have space for desks so he did not have to work at the dining room table.

Sara would giggle and called the place their 'love nest' as she had transformed the bedroom and its furnishings from his random thrown-together mismatched sheets, spreads, drapes, and pillows to a beautiful, restful room. He never said the word but thought she had feminized it in a good way with soft colors, pillows, lamps, a wall-to-wall rug on the floor. She had done the same to the closets—organized, matched up, and boxed up items they did not use or need frequently.

He wiped his hand across his face thinking about the small bathroom. They were still learning to share the space; he grinned as he thought about the reality of sharing a single sink. Sara did her best to overlook the mess he made and the time he spent in the bathroom. She was such a simple woman—uncomplicated and undemanding—until it came to her past and he knew only slightly more about her history now than he had known a year ago. And about that, she did not talk. And she did not talk about her use of his sofa as a bed on too many occasions.

At some point while all this was happening, he realized Sara had very few possessions—no college textbooks, no childhood mementos, only two photographs of her parents—and he was somewhat embarrassed at the number of 'things' he had kept for decades. She was astonished that he had his father's botanical prints stuffed in an old box; that a beautiful carving his mother had given him was in the bottom of his closet. Almost reverently, she had wrapped and stored these.

Yet, Sara kept insisting their current arrangement suited her—insisted every month on writing him a check equal to what she had paid in rent plus a varying amount for utilities to help with expenses. Reluctantly, knowing he could not win against her determination, he took her check and placed it in a special account. And today, he had done something that might push her into taking the next step. Hopefully, he thought, it would be the direction he wanted.

For several months, he had watched as a building was being built in a new town center, near the lab, in a developer planned community. Sara had expressed an interest in the area because of the environmentally friendly, space saving designs being used in the project. Today, he had taken an official tour of the condominium building and liked it so much that he had decided on his next step. He had found the original deed to his condo and had gotten the necessary form completed for adding Sara's name to the deed. Their notarized signatures and filing the new paperwork would give her one-half ownership—and with that, he hoped Sara would be willing to put the place on the market.

Hank whined and Grissom knew Sara had arrived. Both met her at the door, Hank bouncing around in greeting, Sara laughing and hugging Grissom first and then the dog.

Grissom knew she had showered at work by the faint citrus fragrance that hit his nose when she walked in the door.

"My favorite human and dog! I've missed you both!" She said as she turned back to Grissom. "You most of all—it isn't the same place without you!" She kissed him before asking, "What have you been doing?" She tucked her head in the direction of the stacked boxes. "Looking for something?"

He had no idea how she knew the boxes had been moved, but said, "I found it. Are you hungry?" He held her for a minute before saying, "I've made a couple of appointments for us." When she looked puzzled, he continued, "Breakfast first?"

Sara shook her head in a noncommittal way as she asked, "Appointments?" Perplexed eyes met his.

Placing his hand on her back, he gently directed her to the table. "I've made a decision—and then we're going to make one. Sit—coffee or juice?"

"Juice."

He quickly poured juice in two glasses, got two blueberry muffins from a box, and returned to the table, sitting beside her.

"I have a confession to make," he said.

Sara was surprised to see the vulnerable expression that invaded his eyes. She smiled, "What might that be?"

Grissom lightly stroked the top of her hand. "I looked at a new condominium building today—without you and I think you would like it. And I found the deed to this one—I—I—don't think I've ever said that I own it—no mortgage—so I've been putting your check into a separate account."

When Sara attempted to interrupt him, he held his hand up. "Let me get this out, please. We need a bigger place, Sara. I got this place at an excellent price because it was meant for one person—you know that! Today, I got the form to add your name to the deed—and we're going to put it on the market—find another place—bigger." He paused long enough to entwine their fingers. "We need more room."

Sara felt a sudden sweet compassion for this man. "Oh, Gil—no—no! You can't do this—just hand over what you've worked for—your property! You know I love you—you can't do this…"

She stopped in mid-thought as he pulled a paper from a folder. "I'm doing this because I want to do it. You and I know—we've seen how quickly circumstances can change. We have to sign this in front of a notary and it's done."

"Why are you doing this?" she asked quietly. "The place means so much to you."

Grissom gazed directly into her eyes and replied. "Because I want you to trust, for once in your life, that at least one person is capable of having your welfare at heart. I want you to trust me—and I need to prove to myself that you can trust me. We'll be joint owners and then we'll buy a bigger place." He smiled, a reserved look that Sara had rarely seen. "Besides, I have no deep connection to this place! Together, we'll make a new home."

Sara did not know what to say—did not know what this meant. He was correct—if they were to live together they needed a larger place—they needed space. She said, "I—I don't know what to say."

"Just do it."

Her hesitation was apparent. Grissom decided to try another tactic. He said, "I won't—I promise I will not smother you." He gave her a teasing grin. "And we'll get a place with a bigger bathroom," he added with a smile that took away the seriousness on Sara's face.

She sighed, saying, "While we are confessing, I have one to make." She paused and covered their interlaced hands with her free one. "Gil—I—I…" she raised her eyes toward the ceiling, "I have no money, Gil. I live paycheck to paycheck." She lifted her fingers to her face and wiped her eyes. "I—I know you think—I—I don't have any savings—I don't have any money to help buy another place."

"Sh-sh-sh," Grissom placed a finger on her lips. "I don't care, Sara. It does not matter. I know what your salary is! We'll be fine! I am sure this condo will sell for much more than I paid for it—great market right now. And if we agree to buy one of the new ones—I'm sure we can negotiate a good price. We'll have more room!"

Sara's eyes searched the beloved face, wondering if she was ready to risk the small piece of independence and self-sufficiency she'd worked so hard to achieve.

"Well?" he asked.

Holding the deed in one hand and wrapping the other around his, she stood and led him away from the table, through the kitchen, where she stopped long enough to give Hank a treat, and entered the bedroom which was bathed in soft lamp light. She realized he had spent part of his day-off cleaning and making the bed with fresh linens.

"What time is the first appointment?"

Grissom grinned, gesturing toward the bed, "You truly shock me, Miss Sidle!"

"No, I don't," she said, pausing to shut the door and placing the deed on the bedside table.

As she turned around, Grissom's fingers tightened on her arms before running his hands down to her hips. He brought her close and she realized he was aroused.

He said, "Say yes—say you'll do this—say it."

"Gil," she breathed his name and surrendered.

As he lowered his head toward her, Sara tilted her head back, exposing her throat for his lips. His hands came up and pushed her shirt over her head and in a quick smooth movement, her bra slipped off. His hands cupped her breasts. She fit perfectly in his palms as his fingers caressed her nipples.

"Sara," his voice was rough, sexual.

"Appointments?" Sara whispered as his hands drifted lower, unfastening her pants as his hand found the elastic of her panties.

Murmuring, "We have time" his hand went even lower, cupping her as he ran a knuckle against the silky fabric between her legs.

Sara sucked in a breath as raw desire shot through her like water surging through rapids. When his finger slid inside the lacy edge of the panties, the desire erupted. Her hips thrust forward with his touch; she felt his finger slid between folds and find damp heat. The sound that escaped her mouth became one long sexual chorus.

"So close," he said as he backed her to the bed. "Get these off."

Sara knew he meant clothing and quickly, giggling, they were naked and between freshly laundered sheets. A gentle hand separated her legs and she closed her eyes at the intimate sensation of having her lover's hands on her.

"Open your eyes."

Her hips lifted again with his words as one hand fondled her breast, the other slid down to touch her sex. His knuckle grazed her up and down with gentle pressure, up and down. Every nerve in her body seemed to sizzle.

He increased the pressure of his finger at the same time he took her nipple between his lips; Sara thought she might burst into flames, but the tender pressure stopped.

"Ohhhh," she moaned, lifting to his hand, wanting more, and then he pushed two fingers inside her, keeping his thumb on the most sensitive spot. She came so fast and so intensely that consciousness dimmed, aware of his fingers swirling inside her, stroking, as she fell into a whirlpool of unbelievable bliss.

When awareness returned, Sara opened her eyes to soft, sparkling blue ones; his hand was still on her and the slight movement of his fingers sent aftershock tremors through her.

He said, simply, "Again."

Stretching, he covered her body with his and kissed her, furiously. He was barely holding his own needs in check as he greedily kissed her and then Sara invaded his mouth with her tongue.

Suddenly, he was on his back and she was straddling him. He wanted her, her mouth kissing his, but she moved to his chest where she rolled her tongue around his nipples. It caused him to arc off the bed. Her laugh was seduction and when her hand closed around his erection, his mind blanked. All he could do was feel, slow, strong, up and down as her lips and tongue circled, licked and, finally took him in.

He thought he was going to burst into a thousand pieces, but he desperately wanted to be inside her, so he flipped her over and when he plunged into her a primitive connection was made and he came with volcanic force.

...

"Gil, wake up."

Grissom reached out to touch the source of the voice.

"What time is the first appointment?" The question was whispered against his bare chest.

A warm body was curled against him. Sara. He blinked twice before his eyes cleared enough to see her.

"Sara," he whispered as he came awake. Fog lifted—sex, mind-blowing sex with Sara. Gradually, he got his bearings; their heads were at the foot of the bed, pillows had disappeared; the bed he had carefully made was destroyed.

"Eleven—eleven o'clock. What time is it now?" he asked.

"Ten," Sara said with a giggle. "If we hurry, we might make it."

_A/N: Again, thank you. We appreciate hearing from you-one more chapter to go!_


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: And the last chapter...a long one for your enjoyment! Read, enjoy, review! Thank you!_

**This Kind of Love **

**Chapter 20**

There were few places less hospitable than the ground where she was standing, Sara thought. Fewer still that created such a paradox in a few yards. They had ridden to the launch area in a vehicle that was almost the same bleached brown color as the rocks under her feet—and nearly as old based on the threadbare seats and grinding gears. Turning she could see the clear cold flowing water of the Colorado River—truly the life-giving current for the southwestern United States—providing water and power for millions along its path to the sea. And today, it would provide freedom, a way to release the burden of never ending work, a reprieve from the almost constant requests from law-enforcement officers, the under-sheriff, judges who wanted the expertise of…

She turned from the river and watched Gil Grissom—animated, laughing and talking to the old man who had driven them from the parking lot. For him—for them, she had made plans, packed food and water for the day, brought hats and sunscreen, and picked him up for the drive to the dam. Within minutes, he had known where they were going as his face had lit up with surprise and relief before he settled into the seat and slept most of the way.

It had been surprisingly easy, Sara thought; Grissom's condo sold in less than forty days and it had taken a few more days to finalize the sale and finish the interior of the new place. Sara found herself—there was a better word but she could not pull it from her brain as she off-loaded the bulky water-proof duffle—satisfied with life. She grinned as she watched Grissom unload paddles and life vests.

They had been so busy for weeks; so much had happened at work—ramifications were still being felt and handled and lay behind this adventure today. At home—she smiled every time she walked into the new place—the condo she and Grissom had purchased was perfect for them; they were extremely happy—satisfied—the word came to her mind so easily she decided it must be the right one to use for their situation.

Their new home was furnished, not completely decorated but nearly so, with unexpected ease. They were comfortable; Sara's smile grew as she thought about living with Grissom. She had known they belonged together—after all this time, she thought, they were happy. They had an office, a beautiful bedroom, a spacious kitchen and dining area with a wall of windows and a wall of shelves, a large living room, and another bedroom she used occasionally as a private sanctuary. She had used many of Grissom's mementos and family keepsakes for decorating and, for her, having his possessions displayed gave her a feeling of home—as a home should be—with his father's botanical drawings, his grandfather's fossils, an amazing treasure of gifts from around the world his mother had given him.

"Are you ready?" The man Sara knew as Billy asked as he reached to take her duffle for the last few steps. She took one of the jackets from Grissom and put it on.

"I think so!" Grissom said, shifting the two paddles to his shoulder.

Sara followed the two men to the edge of the river where a long red canoe waited.

Billy said, "Late in the season for big groups. A few kayakers went out early but you won't see many—pretty much have it to yourselves today." He placed the duffle in the boat and looped a rope to hold it in place. "I'll be at the pull out around sundown so take your time!" He lifted his battered hat and motioned for Sara to get in the canoe. He laughed as he said, "You are a pretty woman, Sara. I don't know why you hang around this guy."

She flashed him a wide smile as she stepped into the boat.

"Stop flirting with my girl, Billy!" Laughing, Grissom bent to push the canoe into the river. Sara took the paddle he handed her.

Both men laughed when she placed it across the boat and leaned back so the morning sun touched her face. She said, "I'm going to float like Cleopatra on the Nile today." She stretched her legs and rested her feet on opposite sides of the canoe.

A few minutes later they were in the current of the Colorado River below the Hoover Dam and there was no reason for either of them to talk. The scenery was simply breathtaking with a ribbon of blue sky above steep canyon walls, a shimmering sun, and a wide stretch of river before them. A single hawk floated on a thermal high above the canyon.

For the first time in weeks, Grissom let his mind dissolve into one simple reflection. He smiled as he watched the person who was the center of his thoughts. Sara—Sara—Sara; he had never imagined being with her would be so simple, so easy, and so pleasantly agreeable. He had lived alone for so long; he had been driven by work and emotionally distant to anyone who tried to get close to him until Sara. He had forgotten what it was like to play and this thought made him smile.

He settled into using his paddle to steer, easily keeping the canoe in the center of the river, and returned to his thoughts. Sharing a house—sharing a home—with Sara had turned his life upside down in so many ways—positive ways. He had to stop himself from smiling, stop his hand from reaching out on occasions when she was near him. And the biggest surprise was that none of their co-workers seemed to notice this change in him—or the change in Sara—his forehead puckered slightly as he tried to come up with the right word to describe their situation—and his thoughts caused him to laugh out loud.

"What's so funny?" Sara's voice came to him in a dreamy, wistful tone.

Letting the boat drift, he put his thoughts into words. "What do we have, Sara? This—this arrangement? What do we call it?"

Her laughter drifted on the wind and echoed on the canyon walls as she realized both had been thinking about their 'arrangement'.

"Lust, Gil, its lust! And we are living in 'sin'—I'm a harlot which makes you a—a," she turned around causing the canoe to rock slightly before he put the paddle in the river.

He interrupted, "You are no harlot, my dear. And we are lovers. We share a house—a bed…" he began to laugh. "I am amazed that no one has noticed—I think that's what I was thinking about—none of them seem to notice us." He switched his paddle and easily pushed them toward a narrow slot in the canyon wall. He laughed again, saying, "I keep thinking someone will notice how happy we are!"

Sara, knowing where he was headed, stuck her paddle into the water but before she stroked, she quickly sent a spray of water behind her. When Grissom yelled as cold water hit him, Sara's laughter echoed again.

"That's what you get for thinking today!" She said, her laughter still reverberating off the stone walls.

"I'll stop," he promised as he expertly steered the small boat between two boulders as large as houses.

A few minutes later their boat was in one of the many tributary creeks that reached the Colorado River from a hidden spring high among the rock walls. Angling the canoe around rocks and boulders, knowing where they were headed, they both paddled and navigated a stream of water barely wide enough for the boat until it opened upon a pool of water hedged on three sides by sheer rock walls. A narrow beach, no more than twenty feet long, provided the perfect spot for anchoring the canoe, spreading a picnic, and resting in the sun.

While the water of the river was never more than sixty degrees, the pool, with most of its water coming from hot springs, was considerably warmer. As Grissom paddled toward the beach, Sara placed her paddle on the bottom of the canoe and removed her life jacket and her shirt. Underneath, she wore nothing; quickly, she removed her pants and moved to the edge of the boat's side.

Grissom knew what she was going to do and held the boat steady with his paddle.

Keeping her weight on her feet, stripped naked except for her pink panties and river shoes, Sara gave him a disarming girlish smile and rolled backward into the water. The canoe rocked as she came up, laughing, shaking her head, water droplets flying from her hair like fracturing glass.

"Why are you still sitting there?" she asked, and broke into an adept back stroking swim.

The sight of Sara's sleek body, the peaks of her nipples lifting out of the water with each stroke caused him to peel off every stitch of clothing, including his boxers, and jump cannonball style over the side with enough force to send the canoe rocketing toward the beach.

For a moment, after he surfaced, all he could do was tread water, and then he began swimming, splashing playfully, attempting to keep up with Sara as she swam in circles around him. The water was clear, emerald green, amazingly warm, and exhilarating to two people who had been wrapped tightly in complicated crimes, heedless injuries, and unjustifiable deaths for days on end.

They frolicked like puppies for a while, touching and releasing each other, floating, swimming in a private paradise made by nature. Some time passed before Grissom realized he was alone in the water and caught sight of Sara on the narrow beach, still naked from the waist up, but wrapping a towel around her hair. He managed to flip over on his back, extend his arms and float, and, as he watched her spread an old blanket on the ground, he felt heat growing in his groin. He blamed it on the almost transparent panties covering the perfect little tush he was watching.

Unable to take more, he dog paddled to shallow water where Sara pitched him the white towel.

"Better cover up that pole before a fish decides to bite," she laughed.

Instead of covering up, or even drying off, Grissom followed her to the blanket, saying, "I have another plan!"

He stood over her for a full minute as water dripped off his body, spotting the blanket she was smoothing, before Sara reached for his hand; both smiled as light blazed in his blue eyes.

"Sara," he whispered, pushing his face into her damp hair.

This was not the first time they had made love in this private shelter. Weeks before, they had realized that it was a place that was hard to find and rarely visited by the thousands of people who floated down the river. Well hidden by the boulders, as well as difficult to follow the winding stream, and unmentioned by tour books, few people would find this concealed gem.

Grissom knew this as he closed his eyes and put his mouth on Sara's skin, tasting the flesh at the hollow of her throat, smelling the minerals from the fresh water. His hands followed the curve of her hip before he let his eyes wander to her breasts.

He said, "I can't believe how beautiful you are." His lips continued along the crest of her shoulder. "I've wanted you from the beginning, you know."

Sara laughed, "From the beginning?" she asked, "When I came to Vegas?" Her hands combed through his wet curly hair as he kissed the soft places on her throat, her breasts, working his way back to her mouth. Easily and eventually, they were prone on the blanket.

A hum of satisfaction coursed through him as he settled one leg over hers, his erection hard against her hip. When his lips touched hers, he lightly stroked her bottom lip with his tongue; her lips parted and his tongue slipped between them to meet hers. She pressed her hands against his back, urging him closer.

Breaking the kiss, he trailed fingers along her collarbone, down her chest, and followed with his lips. He felt her nipple stiffen as his cheek grazed it and the silky touch caught his breath.

Sara loved the feeling of his soft curls between her fingers, felt the heat of his breath against her breast. She felt the scratchy growth of his beard as he nuzzled her, gently rubbing his jaw on her skin. The friction added to the thrill of pleasure already coming together between her legs like streaks of lightning converging on a single white-hot target.

Her back arched as his mouth closed over her tight nipple, tugging gently, caressing it with his tongue. She moaned softly as they lay together in a dreamy interlude, as arousal spiraled, and pulses of pleasure grew. His hand smoothed downward from her breast to the hot, wet apex of her legs. His fingers caressed her, probed her, galvanizing her passion until the sweet exploration became unbearable.

"Gil—Gil—Gil…"

He raised his head and met her gaze with glittering intensity. In seconds, her panties were off; Grissom reached down and removed the sandals from their feet, and for another few seconds, they looked at each other. He smiled as her eyes shifted from his face downward to the straining organ rising from the bird's nest of hair between his legs. It gleamed in the bright sunlight; a tiny droplet at the tip.

Sara reached to the dense tangle and as her fingers touched him, he sucked in air. Drawing her fingers up its taut length, she smoothed his wetness with her fingertip.

Grissom growled, "Sara," as she glided fingers up, down, up and down again. He groaned as he took her hand in his, leaned to her and kissed her with a hard, searing kiss. His tongue invaded her mouth in a familiar rhythm so sexual that she moved her body against his, lifted her legs and pushed his hips to hers.

"Now—now!" She laughed, adding, "I'm going to hurt you if you don't!"

He chuckled as he lowered himself, attempting to hold his body on his elbows but the soft sand did not help. Sara's laughter was an aphrodisiac; the way she looked at him with such passion, feeling his need as she throbbed with her own.

He stopped just short of entering her body. Her eyes flew open. "Don't stop!"

"I love you, Sara," he said as a soft laugh escaped him. "I want you to know that."

She felt the broad, wet tip of him inch inside her. "Oh, Gil," she laughed as he paused again, "I love you to pieces," she threw her head back, her eyes half-closed, smiling a guilelessly smile as her hands moved to his butt and pressed his pelvis against her. In one long, smooth and fierce movement, he was sheathed completely.

They groaned in unison—an incredible sound of passion—and within minutes, Sara cried out—a totally feminine cry of fulfillment as her body convulsed beneath him. A succession of spasms gripped him, like a slippery hand stroking, pulling, squeezing as Sara's ecstasy became his.

His body took over as rhythmic contractions gathered pleasure and erupted in luxurious intensity, as if his entire body was filling her with his essence, his love.

When his body stopped quaking, when he opened his eyes, he found himself lying, sated and heavy on top of Sara, his face buried in her hair. He started to move, but Sara's hands held him.

"Don't move—not yet," she whispered.

He turned his face, his rough beard scratching her neck as he did. "Sorry," he said, "I should have shaved."

She grinned. "I like the way it feels." She stretched against him and he realized the ground had to be uncomfortable for her.

Working his arm underneath her head, he expelled a long sigh, saying, "What are we…"

"Shhh," she said as her fingers caressed his face. "We love each other—we are happy. Let's spend our time making each other happy." Giggling, she wrapped legs around his. "And making love!"

He chuckled. "Vixen—tell me—what's next?"

Sara moved, not gently but swiftly, from under him and in a quick move, she was up and dragging him to the water again. "This," she said.

. . .

_Epilogue_

At one time, Sara thought she would never paddle the Colorado River again—too many memories, she had decided. But today—actually, it had been several years—she was back on the river, laughing in a way she had once thought was gone forever.

"We should be getting near—watch for the…" Gil Grissom's words were cut off as he gave a triumphant shout. "There it is!"

Sara remembered the narrow slot entrance and the pool just beyond. "Do you think it's changed?"

"No—no," her husband laughed, "nothing changes down here!"

Leaning against her paddle with strong stokes, Sara said, "Hold on—here we go!"

Quickly, the canoe shot between two boulders that had been guarding the outlet of the creek for centuries. At the same time, two high-pitched squeals interrupted the quietness of the canyon.

Immediately, Grissom said, "It's okay—we've been here before—there's a little beach and a place to swim!"

The two children's shrieks changed to nervous laughter; as Sara used the paddle to avoid a rock, she felt a small hand tighten around her ankle. "We've fine, Jane. Almost there and we'll play," she said softly to the dark haired girl at her feet.

Just as quickly as the boat had gone between the boulders, it was clear of them and gliding into a calm pool of clear water. Sara heard Grissom's laugh.

"I have such fond memories of this place!" he said.

Sara quickly lifted her paddle and sent water flying behind her; Grissom yelped. The children laughed, relief obvious in their voices.

"Can we swim?" the older child, sitting behind Sara, asked.

"We can!" Grissom said, adding, "Your mother loves to swim here!"

The boat moved smoothly onto a sandy beach; Sara jumped out and tied the canoe to a large rock. As she turned around, her husband had already helped the two children out of the boat and was checking their floatation vests.

Luis, their son, was jumping with excitement while little Jane was determined to get between the two; both were chattering while Grissom was nodding his head, successfully multi-tasking as four small hands joined with his to check buckles, belts, and fasteners.

"Go ahead," Sara called. "I'll unpack and join you in three minutes!"

Her words caused more excitement and she watched as the three entered the warm water. Jane clung to Grissom's leg until he lifted her to his hip while Luis showed his 'big brother' bravery and waded in.

As she unpacked towels, food, water, and blankets, Sara let her mind wander back in time, remembering when she and Grissom, attempting to escape job stress, would spend hours on the river and in this private spot. The laughter of her husband and children brought a smile.

So much had happened; at one time, she believed her marriage was over. She thought she would never have children. Her husband had difficulty coping with the reality he could never be a biological father and had left her—actually told her it was for her own good—until she had gotten over her own shock, her own private grief, and had gone to him.

By accident—Betty Grissom said it was by God's design—they learned about an international adoption agency that would place special needs children with older couples who had access to medical care. They signed forms, were placed on a list and seventy-three days later went to Panama. A child with a cleft palate and a malformed leg needed parents; the boy had a younger sister. And Panama did not separate siblings.

At the time, Luis was four and Jane was almost two. They had been abandoned, officially orphaned, for eighteen months. And their names finally worked to the top of the list for international adoption at the same time that Sara and Gil Grissom rotated to possibly prospective parents. At their first meeting, Sara knew she had found a family; her husband agreed.

Sara was brought out of her reverie by gleeful shouting from the water. Quickly, she removed her shirt and pants to uncover her swim suit.

"Come in, Mommy!" Luis called out. There was a tremendous amount of splashing going on.

After three surgeries, their sweet and beautiful son had a slight limp and a very similar gait as his adoptive father. His cleft palate had been successfully corrected; he had gained weight and grown taller, and his speech development equaled that of other children his age. He was loved by everyone, and he reciprocated with tender kindheartedness.

And Jane—Sara had never imagined a daughter like Jane. By the time she was three, she was speaking in complete sentences using a reasoning power that left both parents wordless. Her father often referred to her as "the executive" because she loved telling people what to do. She bossed her brother, she twirled her father around her finger, and occasionally let her mother know that she wasn't as fearless as she appeared. Sara loved both children more than she had thought possible.

For several minutes, she watched the playing trio. Her husband had become the father she had always known he would be—kind, thoughtful, supportive, and deeply compassionate about his responsibility as a parent.

As she started toward the water's edge, Jane made an ear piercing scream of joy, followed by "Watch me swim, Mommy. Watch me now!"

Arms and legs kicked, water splashed, Luis shouted, and Grissom laughed.

"I'm coming!" Sara answered, a broad smile forming on her face at the amazing turn of events that had created this family—this kind of love.

The End!

_A/N: And now thank you to everyone for reading our bit of fluff and sweet smut! May GSR never die! Keep reading GSR stories, support the writers, and may GSR live on!_


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